Prophecy

Ambassadors are rarely, if ever, met by the head of the nation to which they come. They go to him. But this case was an exception to every established precedent, and the President of the United States, Philip Brackney, felt no loss in dignity as he came to the spaceship.

It was, he thought, really a lovely machine, with all the beauty of perfect functionalism—and something more than that, a touch of the haunting indefinable splendor of a clipper ship or a Greek temple. The five-hundred-foot pylon towered over the green Iowan plain, a blinding metallic dazzle in the sunlight, a spearhead poised at infinity. Its gleaming height dwarfed the buildings on the farm on which it had descended.

As the presidential car and its attendants swept up the dirt road—it was in extremely poor condition after the thousands of sightseers who had used it in the past month—the chief of Brackney’s secret service guards said nervously: “For the last time, sir, are you sure this is wise?”

“Of course,” he answered, a little irritable with excitement. “Any other procedure would be madness!”

“But…if they have bad intentions—”

“Listen, Mr. Dickson, if they meant to do anything hostile, they’d do it. That one ship has more power than all this planet’s combined military forces.” The awe of it swept over Brackney, he breathed almost religiously: “A spaceship from the stars—and men aboard—”

The Secretary of Defense spoke slowly: “You know, every night for the past month I’ve gone down on my knees—and am not ashamed to admit it—to thank God that ship landed here. Not in some potential enemy’s camp, but here—with us.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” said the President. “The visitors have been all over Earth in their lifeboats, seeing for themselves, taking almost all the printed matter they could get back. They probably have a better overall picture of Earth than we do.”

He said, as the car swung up the driveway: “This is by rights not a matter for us at all. The United Nations alone should handle it, and they must take over soon. But—it was never set up to deal with ambassadors. I have to make the first official approach, for lack of anyone else.”

The farmer stood nervously waiting. Since that rainy night a month gone when the ship landed in his pasture, he had lived in such a glare of publicity as to become a bit blasé about it. But after all—the President—

“I think they’re waiting, sir,” he mumbled.

“Very well. Come along, gentlemen.” Brackney led the way.

A ramp had been lowered from the entrance lock, a hundred feet above ground. The party stepped on it and it rose smoothly up, with an uncanny, almost living flexibility.

For a moment, Brackney’s throat was dry. A spaceship from the stars—Don’t be a fool! he reproached himself sharply. The Taithans have emphasized their friendliness a hundred times. They aren’t conquistadores, they are representatives of a culture a thousand years ahead of ours—a culture that must have outgrown war, or the race would destroy itself with the weapons it has.