“Hello, there!”

  Husting had to yell to be heard above the racket. But the nearest of the spacemen looked at him and smiled.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Incredible! He had greeted little Joe Husting as a friend. Why—? Wait a minute! Perhaps the sheer brass of it had pleased him. Perhaps no one else had dared speak first to the strangers. And when you only said, “Yes, sir,” to a man, even to a Galactic, you removed him—you might actually make him feel lonely.

  “Uh, like it here?” Husting cursed his tongue, that its glibness should have failed him at this moment of all moments.

  “Sure, sure. Biggest city I ever seen. And draxna, look at what I got!” The spaceman lifted a necklace of red glass sparklers. “Won’t their eyes just bug out when I get home!”

  Someone shoved Husting against the barrier so the wind went from him. He gasped and tried to squirm free.

  “Say, cut that out. You’re hurting the poor guy.” One of the Galactics touched a stud on his belt. Gently but inexorably, the field widened, pushing the crowd back…and somehow, somehow Husting was inside it with the seven from the stars.

  “You OK, pal?” Anxious hands lifted him to his feet.

  “I, yeah, sure. Sure, I’m fine!” Husting stood up and grinned at the envious faces ringing him in. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Glad to help you. My name’s Gilgrath. Call me Gil.” Strong fingers squeezed Husting’s shoulder. “And this here is Bronni, and here’s Col, and Jordo, and—”

  “Pleased to meet you,” whispered Husting inadequately. ‘‘I’m Joe.”

  “Say, this is all right!” said Gil enthusiastically. “I was wondering what was wrong with you folks.”

  “Wrong?” Husting shook a dazed head, wondering if They were peering into his mind and reading thoughts of which he himself was unaware. Vague memories came back, grave-eyed Anubis weighing the heart of a man.

  “You know,” said Gil. “Stand-offish, like.”

  “Yeh,” added Bronni. “Every other new planet we been to, everybody was coming up and saying hello and buying us drinks and—”

  “Parties,” reminded Jordo.

  “Yeh. Man, remember that wing-ding on Alphaz? Remember those girls?” Col rolled his eyes lickerishly.

  “You got a lot of good-looking girls here in New York,” complained Gil. “But we got orders not to offend nobody. Say, do you think one of those girls would mind if I said hello to her?”

  Husting was scarcely able to think; it was the reflex of many years which now spoke for him, rapidly: “You have us all wrong. We’re just scared to talk to you. We thought maybe you didn’t want to be bothered.”

  “And we thought you— Say!” Gil slapped his thigh and broke into a guffaw. “Now ain’t that something? They don’t want to bother us and we don’t want to bother them!”

  ‘‘I’ll be rixt!” bellowed Col. “Well, what do you know about that?”

  “Hey, in that case—” began Jordo.

  “Wait, wait!” Husting waved his hands. It was still habit which guided him; his mind was only slowly getting back into gear. “Let me get this straight. You want to do the town, right?”

  “We sure do,” said Col. “It’s mighty lonesome out in space.”

  “Well, look,” chattered Husting, “you’ll never be free of all these crowds, reporters—” (A flashbulb, the tenth or twelfth in these few minutes, dazzled his eyes.) “You won’t be able to let yourselves go while everybody knows you’re Galactics.”

  “On Alphaz—” protested Bronni.

  “This isn’t Alphaz. Now I’ve got an idea. Listen.” Seven dark heads bent down to hear an urgent whisper. “Can you get us away from here? Fly off invisible or something?”

  “Sure,” said Gil. “Hey, how’d you know we can do that?”

  “Never mind. OK, we’ll sneak off to my apartment and send out for some Earth-style clothes for you, and then—”

  * * *

  John Joseph O’Reilly, Cardinal Archbishop of New York, had friends in high places as well as in low. He thought it no shame to pull wires and arrange an interview with the chaplain of the spaceship. What he could learn might be of vital importance to the Faith. The priest from the stars arrived, light-screened to evade the curious, and was received in the living room.

  Visible again, Thyrkna proved to be a stocky white-haired man in the usual blue-kirtled uniform. He smiled and shook hands in quite an ordinary manner. At least, thought O’Reilly, these Galactics had during a million years conquered overweening Pride.

  “It is an honor to meet you,” he said.

  “Thanks,” nodded Thyrkna. He looked around the room.

  “Nice place you got.”

  “Please be seated. May I offer you a drink?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  O’Reilly set forth glasses and a bottle. In a modest way, the Cardinal was a connoisseur, and had chosen the Chambertin-Clos carefully. He tasted the ritual few drops. Whatever minor saint, if any, was concerned with these things had been gracious; the wine was superb. He filled his guest’s glass and then his own.

  “Welcome to Earth,” he smiled.

  “Thanks.” The Galactic tossed his drink off at one gulp. “Aaah! That goes good.”

  The Cardinal winced, but poured again. You couldn’t expect another civilization to have the same tastes. Chinese liked aged eggs while despising cheese…

  He sat down and crossed his legs. “I’m not sure what title to use,” he said diffidently.

  “Title? What’s that?”

  “I mean, what does your flock call you?”

  “My flock? Oh, you mean the boys on board? Plain Thyrkna. That’s good enough for me.” The visitor finished his second glass and belched. Well, so would a cultivated Eskimo.

  “I understand there was some difficulty in conveying my request,” said O’Reilly. “Apparently you did not know what our word chaplain means.”

  “We don’t know every word in your lingo,” admitted Thyrkna. “It works like this. When we come in toward a new planet, we pick up its radio, see?”

  “Oh, yes. Such of it as gets through the ionosphere.”

  Thyrkna blinked. “Huh? I don’t know all the de-tails. You’ll have to talk to one of our tech…technicians. Anyway, we got a machine that analyzes the different languages, figures ’em out. Does it in just a few hours, too. Then it puts us all to sleep and teaches us the languages. When we wake up, we’re ready to come down and talk.”

  The Cardinal laughed. “Pardon me, sir. Frankly, I was wondering why the people of your incredibly high civilization should use our worst street dialects. Now I see the reason. I am afraid our programs are not on a very high level. They aim at mass taste, the lowest common denominator—and please excuse my metaphors. Naturally you— But I assure you, we aren’t all that bad. We have hopes for the future. This electronic educator of yours, for instance…what it could do to raise the cultural level of the average man surpasses imagination.”

  Thyrkna looked a trifle dazed. “I never seen anybody what talks like you Earthlings. Don’t you ever run out of breath?”

  O’Reilly felt himself reproved. Among the Great Galactics, a silence must be as meaningful as a hundred words, and there were a million years of dignity behind them. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Oh, it’s all right. I suppose a lot of our ways must look just as funny to you.” Thyrkna picked up the bottle and poured himself another glassful.

  “What I asked you here for…there are many wonderful things you can tell me, but I would like to put you some religious questions.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” said Thyrkna amiably.

  “My Church has long speculated about this eventuality. The fact that you, too, are human, albeit more advanced than we, is a miraculous revelation of God’s will. But I would like to know something about the precise form of your belief in Him.”

  “What do you mean?” Thyrkna sounded confused. ‘‘I’m a, uh, quartermaster. It’s part of my job to kill the rabbits—we can’t afford the space for cattle on board a ship. I feed the gods, that’s all.”

  “The gods!” The Cardinal’s glass crashed on the floor.

  “By the way, what’s the names of your top gods?” inquired Thyrkna. “Be a good idea to kill them a cow or two, as long as we’re here on their planet. Don’t wanna take chances on bad luck.”

  “But…you…heathen—”

  Thyrkna looked at the clock. “Say, do you have TV?” he asked. “It’s almost time for John’s Other Life. You got some real good TV on this planet.”

  * * *

  By the dawn’s early light, Joe Husting opened a bleary eye and wished he hadn’t. The apartment was a mess. What happened, anyway?’

  Oh, yeah…those girls they picked up…but had they really emptied all those bottles lying on the floor?

  He groaned and hung onto his head lest it split open. Why had he mixed scotch and stout?

  Thunder lanced through his eardrums. He turned on the sofa and saw Gil emerging from the bedroom. The spaceman was thumping his chest and booming out a song learned last night. “Oh, roly poly—”

  “Cut it out, will you?” groaned Husting.

  “Huh? Man, you’ve had it, ain’t you?” Gil clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Here, just a minute.” He took a vial from his belt. “Take a few drops of this. It’ll fix you up.”

  Somehow Husting got it down. There was a moment of fire and pinwheels, then—

  –he was whole again. It was as if he had just slept ten hours without touching alcohol for the past week.

  Gil returned to the bedroom and started pummeling his companions awake. Husting sat by the window, thinking hard. That hangover cure was worth a hundred million if he could only get the exclusive rights. But no, the technical envoys would show Earth how to make it, along with star ships and invisibility screens and so on. Maybe, though, he could hit the Galactics for what they had with them, and peddle it for a hundred dollars a drop before the full-dress mission arrived.

  Bronni came in, full of cheer. “Say, you’re all right, Joe,” he trumpeted. “Ain’t had such a good time since I was on Alphaz. What’s next, old pal, old pal, old pal?” A meaty hand landed stunningly between Husting’s shoulder blades.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said the Earthman cautiously. “But I’m busy, you know. Got some big deals cooking.”

  “I know,” said Bronni. He winked. “Smart fellow like you. How the hell did you talk that bouncer around? I thought sure he was gonna call the cops.”

  “Oh, I buttered him up and slipped him a ten-spot. Wasn’t hard.”

  “Man!” Bronni whistled in admiration. “I never heard anybody sling the words like you was doing.”

  Gil herded the others out and said he wanted breakfast. Husting led them all to the elevator and out into the street. He was rather short-spoken, having much to think about. They were in a ham-and-eggery before he said:

  “You spacemen must be pretty smart. Smarter than average, right?”

  “Right,” said Jordo. He winked at the approaching waitress.

  “Lotta things a spaceman’s got to know,” said Col. “The ships do just about run themselves, but still, you can’t let just any knucklehead into the crew.”

  “I see,” murmured Husting. “I thought so.”

  A college education helps the understanding, especially when one is not too blinkered by preconceptions.

  Consider one example: Sir Isaac Newton discovered (a) the three laws of motion, (b) the law of gravitation, (c) the differential calculus, (d) the elements of spectroscopy, (e) a good deal about acoustics, and (f) miscellaneous, besides finding time to serve in half a dozen official and honorary positions. A single man! And for a genius, he was not too exceptional; most gifted Earthmen have contributed to several fields.

  And yet…such supreme intellect is not necessary. The most fundamental advances, fire- and tool-making, language and clothing and social organization, were made by apish dimbulbs. It simply took a long time between discoveries.

  Given a million years, much can happen. Newton founded modern physics in one lifespan. A hundred less talented men, over a thousand-year period, could slowly and painfully have accomplished the same thing.

  The IQ of Earth humanity averages about 100. Our highest geniuses may have rated 200; our lowest morons, as stupid as possible without needing institutional care, may go down to 60. It is only some freak of mutation which has made the Earthman so intelligent; he never actually needed all that brain.

  Now if the Galactic average was around IQ 75, with their very brightest boys going up to, say, 150—

  The waitress yipped and jumped into the air. Bronni grinned shamelessly as she turned to confront him.

  Joe Husting pacified her. After breakfast he took the Galactic emissaries out and sold them the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Haiku

  1.

  Stars across fairness,

  Drift of dandelion seeds—

  What, springtime again?

  2.

  Cherry blossoms white—

  Sunset colorless, breath-quick—

  Stars hastening, cold.

  3.

  In snowfall of stars

  Those we see red are not old—

  An early winter.

  4.

  This high summer’s day—

  Beneath it, a winter night

  Amid the same stars.

  5.

  While shadows lengthen

  A dandelion and bee

  Exchange tomorrows.

  Genius

  “The experiment has been going on for almost fifteen hundred years,” said Heym, “and it’s just starting to get under way. You can’t discontinue it now.”

  “Can and will,” replied Goram, “if the situation seems to justify it. That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  “But—one planet! One primitive planet! What sort of monsters do you think live there? I tell you, they’re people, as human as I—” Heym paused. He had meant to add—“and you,” but couldn’t quite bring himself to it. Goram seemed less than human, an atavistic remnant of screaming past ages, an ape in uniform. “—as I am,” finished Heym.

  The hesitation seemed lost on Goram. The marshal stood regarding the psychologist out of sullen little black eyes, blocky form faintly stooped, long arms dangling, prognathous jaw thrust ahead of the broad flat-nosed countenance. The fluorotubes gleamed down on his shining shaven bullet skull. The black gold-braided uniform fitted him closely, a military neatness and precision that was in its way the most primitive characteristic of all.

  He said in his hoarse bass: “So are the rebels. So are the barbarians and pirates. So are the serfs and slaves and criminals and insane. But it’s necessary to suppress all of them. If Station Seventeen represents a menace, it must be suppressed.”

  “But what conceivable danger—One barbarian planet—under constant surveillance throughout its history! If that can menace an empire of a hundred thousand star systems, we’re not safe from anything!”

  “We aren’t. For three thousand years of history, the Empire has been in danger. You have to live with it, as we soldiers do, to realize how ultimately unstable the stablest power in history really is. Oh, we can smash the peripheral barbarians. We can hold the Taranians and the Comi and Magellanics in check.” The marshal’s heavy-ridged eyes swept contemptuously up and down the scientist’s long weedy form. ‘‘I’m in no danger from you. I could break you with my bare hands. But a dozen viruses of Antaric plague, entering my body and multiplying, would paralyze me in agony and rot the flesh off my bones and probably empty this ship of life.”

  The office quivered, ever so faintly. The muffled throb of the great engines was vibrant in its walls and floor and ceiling, in the huge ribs and plates of the hull, in guns that could incinerate a continent and the nerves and bones of the two thousand men manning that planetoidal mass. Monstrously the ship drove through a night of mind-cracking empty distances, outpacing light in her furious subdimensional quasivelocity, impregnable and invincible and inhuman in her arrogance. And a dozen blind half-living protein molecules could kill her.

  Heym nodded stiffly. “I know what you mean,” he said. “After all”—deliberate snobbery edging his voice—“applied psychological science is the basis of the Empire. Military power is only one tool for—us.”

  “As you will. But I am not a researcher’s tool, I belong to practical men, and they have decided this mission. If I report Station Seventeen potentially dangerous, they will order me to destroy it. If I decide it is already dangerous, I have the authority to order it destroyed myself.”

  Heym kept his gaunt face impassive, but for a moment he felt physically ill. He looked across the sparsely furnished office at the marshal’s squat simian form, he saw the barely suppressed triumph-smile in the heavy coarse visage, and a wave of sick revulsion swept over him.

  He thought wearily: Fifteen hundred years…patience, work, worry, heartbreak, and triumph and a gathering dawn…generation after generation, watching from the skies, learning, pouring their whole lives into the mighty project—As if I didn’t know the danger, the fear which is the foundation and the reason for the Empire…and here we have the first glimmerings of what may be a way out of the rattrap which history has become…and it’s now all dependent on him! On the whim of a two-legged animal which will strike out in blind fear to destroy whatever it doesn’t understand…or even understanding, will destroy just for the satisfaction of venting an inferiority complex, of watching better men squirm in pain.

  Calmness came, a steadiness and an icy calculation. After all, he thought, he was a psychologist and Goram was a soldier. It should be possible for him to handle the creature, talk him over, deftly convince him that he himself wanted what Heym wanted and had in fact thought of it himself and had to argue the scientist into agreement.

  Yet—slow, easy, careful. He, Sars Heym, was a research man, not a practicing psychotechnician. He wasn’t necessarily able to handle the blind brutal irrationality of man, any more than a physicist was ordinarily capable of solving an engineering problem. And so much depended on the outcome that…that—