Glowing softly out there in the black
nothingness—writhing evilly—what was
their terrible power that could drive a
ship's crew gibbering out the airlocks?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The ambassador, whose smile had grown fixed, whose thin, broad-domedface was lined and tired, bowed before the screen saying, "Thankyou—thank you."
On Earth, 26,000,000 miles away, a billion saw his final bow andcheered him. "Luck! Luck! Luck!" they roared.
His screen in his suite on the space ship Ceres finally went blankand the voice of the ship's operator cut in nervously, "I'll j-jibewith the Center Room beam in a moment, sir." The operator, a capableman, was frightened. The Ambassador had more reason to be frightened;he took the moment in which he was unlinked from Earth to wipe one handnervously down across his face.
"On C-Center Room, Ambass—"
The operator at either end was cut off as the tight official beams metin mid space. A different voice, older and deep bass, said, "Relax,Phil." The Ambassador let his silvery cloak fall from its dramaticsweep about his shoulders and stood naturally, tall, a little stooped,heavy-shouldered, greying in the prime of his life at seventy-five.His screen, which had been flashing to him a montage of the crowds inTimes Square, in Trafalgar Square, in the Champ de Mars, in Red Square,filled with a view of Center Room, from which the Earth was governed.
The bass voice, backed by a large and friendly smile, belonged to thePresident, who sat at the head of the great ivory table in the huge,soft-lit room. They all were there, the men whom custom deprived ofa name when it gave them their titles—the Executive Secretary, theCoordinator for Education, the Coordinator for Energy, the Terrestrialand Astral Coordinators for Commerce and the half-dozen others whopossessed the ten-year term. If, privately, they called each otherGeorge and Ahmed and Sven, it was for relaxation from the standard ofdignity expected of them.
At the foot of the table sat a small group of important guests, andall the white, black, yellow and brown faces were turned to the imageof the Ambassador who waited for permission from the Venusians to stepupon Venus.
"Take it easy, Phil," the President said.
The Ambassador forced a smile. "Alec, when it's all over, I will."
"It can't fail. The very fact that after fifty years of trying they'refinally willing to receive an Earthman and will consider trade—"The President made, a large, gathering gesture: Everything's in theforce-field. "For fifty years," he said with the reassurance theAmbassador so greatly needed, "we've been dropping them capsules ofEarth goods and the means to learn our language. Drop, drop, drop, andwe've worn away the stone. Can't fail, Phil."
"I know," the Ambassador said. He thought: It isn't that. It was thetriple-distilled inferiority complex which gripped him and shook him.The dread of the terrible brains below Venus' mist.
One by one around the table they gave him brief, friendly God-speed.The distinguished guests were properly more formal with, "The AssembledPhysicists have asked me to convey to you all our best wishes,Ambassador," and more on that style. He thanked them gravely.
One guest, however, distinctly annoyed him. It was Rupert Hoag, thelast of the pioneers, that walking fossil from the first days ofspace travel. "Wide-open, Ambassador," he creaked with an antiquarianreference to atom-jets and a wave of his one han