Silverberg Robert

Point of Focus

Point of Focus

by Robert Silverberg

Federation Emissary Holis Bork was a confident man—and, if he-felt a twinge of curious uneasiness at his first glimpse of Mellidan VII, it was not because he doubted his own capabilities, or the value of the Federation’s name as a civilizing force.

He told himself that it was something subtler and deeper that twinged him, as the warpship spiraled down about the unfederated planet.

Emissary Bork worried about that subliminal reaction through most of the landing period. He sat broodingly with his eyes fixed; the members of his staff gave him a wide berth. It was, he saw, the deference due to a Federation Emissary so obviously deep in creative thinking. The others were clustered at the far end of the observation deck, staring down at the fog-shrouded yellow-green ball that was soon to be the newest addition to the far-flung Federation. Bork listened to them.

Vyn Kumagon was saying, “Look at that place! The atmosphere blankets it like so much soup.”

“I wonder what it’s like to breathe chlorine?” asked Hu Sdreen. “And to. give off carbon tetrachloride instead of CO_2?”

“To them it’s all the same,” Kumagon snapped.

Emissary Bork looked away. He had the answer; he knew what was troubling him.

Mellidan VII was different. The peoples of the worlds of the Federation, and even the four non-Federated worlds of the Sol system, shared one-seemingly universal characteristic: they breathed oxygen, gave off carbon dioxide. And the Mellidani? A chlorine-carbon tetrachloride cycle which worked well for them—but was strange, different. And that difference troubled Federation Emissary Bork on a deep, shadowy, half-grasped plane of thought.

He shook his mind clear and nudged the speaker panel at his wrist. “How long till landing?”

“We enter final orbit in thirty-nine minutes,” Control Center told him. “Contact’s been made with the Mellidani and they’re guiding us in.”

Bork leaned back in the comforting webfoam network and twined his twelve tapering fingers calmly together. He was not worried. Despite Mellidan VII’s alienness, there would be no problems. In minutes, the landing would be effected—and past experience told him it would be but a matter of time before the Federation had annexed its four hundred eighty-sixth world.

* * *

Later, Bork stood by the rear screens, looking down at the planet as the Federation ship whistled downward through the murky green atmosphere. To civilize is our mission, he thought. To offer the benefits—

It was four years Galactic since a Federation survey ship had first touched down on Mellidan VII. It had been strictly an accidental planet-fall: the prelim scouts had thoroughly established that there was little point in. bothering to search a chlorine world for oxygen-type life. That was easily understood.

What was not so easily understood was the possibility of a nonoxygen metabolism. Statistics lay against it; the four hundred eighty-five worlds of the Federation all operated on an oxynitrogen atmosphere and a respiration-photosynthesis cycle that endlessly recirculated oxygen and carbon dioxide. The four inhabited worlds of the unfederated system of Sol were similarly constituted. It was a rule to which no exceptions had been found.

But then the scoutship of Dos Nollibar, cruising out of Vronik XII, came tumbling down into the chlorinated soup of Mellidan VII’s atmosphere, three ultrones in its warpdrive fused beyond repair. It took six weeks for a rescue ship to locate and remove the eleven Federation scouts—and by that time, Chief Scout Dos Nollibar and his men had discovered and made contact with the Mellidani.

Standing at the screen watching his ship thunder down into the thick green shroud of the planet, Emissary Bork cast an inward eye back over Nollibar’s scout report—a last-minute refresher, as it were.

“…Inhabitants roughly humanoid in external structure, though probably nearly solid internally. This is subject to later verification when a specimen is available for complete examination.

“…Main constituents of atmosphere: hydrogen, chlorine, nitrogen, helium. Smaller quantities of other gases. No oxygen. This mixture, is, of course, unbreathable by all forms of Federation life.

“…Mean temperature 260 Absolute. Animal life gives off carbon tetrachloride as respiratory waste; this is broken down by plants to chlorine and complex hydrocarbons. Inhabitants consume plants, smaller animal life, drink hydrochloric acid—

“…Seat of planetary government apparently located not far from our landing-point, unless aliens have deliberately misled, or we have misunderstood. Naturally most of our data is highly tentative in nature, subject to confirmation after this world is enrolled in the Federation and available for further study.”

Which is my job, Bork thought.

For four years, ever since Nollibar had filed his report, Bork had readied himself for the task of bringing Mellidan VII into the Federation. Nollibar had returned with recorded samples of the language, and a few months of phoneme analysis had been sufficient to work out a rough conversion-equation to Federation, good enough for Bork to learn and speak.

There would undoubtedly be a promotion in this for him: to Subgalactic Overchief, perhaps, or Third Warden. Of the ten emissaries whose task it was to bring newly-discovered planets into the Federation, it was he the First Warden had chosen for this job. That was significant, Bork thought: on no other world would the Emissary be forced to forgo direct face-to-face contact with the leaders of the species to be absorbed. Here, on the other hand—

Bork sensed a presence behind him. He turned.

It was Vyn Kumagon, Adjutant in Charge of Communications. Bork had no way of knowing how long Kumagon had been peering over his shoulder; he resented the intrusion on an emissary’s privacy.

And Kumagon’s green eyes were faintly slitted—the mark of Gyralin blood somewhere in his heritage. As a pure-bred Vengol of the Federation’s First Planet, Bork felt vague contempt for his assistant. “Yes?” he said, mildly but with undertones of scorn.

Kumagon’s slitted eyes fixed sharply on the Emissary’s. “Sir, the Mellidani have beamed us for some advice.”

“Eh?”

“They’d like to know how close to the Terran dome we want to land, sir.”

Bork barely repressed a gasp. “What Terran dome?”

“They said the Terrans established a base here several months ago. Sir? Are you well? You—”

“Tell them,” Bork said heavily, “that we wish to land no closer than five miles from the Terran dome, and no further than ten. Can you translate that into their equivalents?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then transmit it.” Bork choked back a strangled cry of rage. Someone, he thought, had blundered in the home office. That Terrans should be allowed to land on a world being groomed for Federation entry—!

Why, it was unthinkable!

The planet was the most forbidding-looking Bork had ever seen, and he had seen a great many. With screens turned to maximal periphery, he could stand in the snout of the ship and look out on Mellidan VII as if he stood outside. It was hardly a pleasant sight.

The land was utterly flat. Long stretches of barren gray-brown soil extended in every direction, sweeping upward into tiny hillocks far toward the horizon. Soil implied the presence of bacteria—anerobic bacteria, of course. Life had evolved on Mellidan VII despite the total lack of oxygen.

There were seas, too, shimmering shallow pools of carbon tetrachloride that had precipitated out of the atmosphere. Plants grew in these ponds: ugly squishy plants, that looked like hordes of gray bladders strung on thick hairy ropes. They lay flat against the bright surface of the carbon tetrachloride pond, drifting. As Bork watched, a Mellidani appeared, wading knee-deep, gathering the bladders, slinging them over his blocky round shoulders. He was a farmer, no doubt.

At this distance it was difficult to tell much about the alien, except that his body was segmented crustaceanlike, humanoid otherwise; his skin looked thick, waxy, leathery. Chief Scout Nollibar had postulated some member of the paraffin series as the chief constituent of Mellidani protoplasm; he was probably right.

Clouds of gaseous chlorine hung thickly overhead, draping the sky with a yellow-green blanket. Somewhere directly above burned the sun Mellidan: a yellow star of some intensity, its heat negated by the planet’s distance from it and by the swath of chlorine that was the atmosphere’s main component.

One other distinct feature made up the view as Bork saw it. Some eight miles directly westward, the violet-hued arc of a plastic-extrusion habitation dome rose from the bare plain. Bork had seen such domes before—more than forty years before, when he had served as a member of the last mission to Terra.

He had been only a Fifth Attaché then, though soon after he was to begin the rapid climb that would bring him to the rank of Federation Emissary. On that occasion, the emissary had been old Morvil Brek, who had added twelve worlds to the Federation during his distinguished career. Brek had been named to make the fifth attempt to enroll the Sol system.

The mission had been a failure; the Terran government had emphatically rejected any offer to federate, and Emissary Brek then declared the system non-Federated for good, in a bitter little speech which fell short of making its intended effect of altering the Terran decision. The Galactics had departed—and, on the outward trip, Bork had seen the violet domes on the snowswept plains of Sol IX, where the Terrans had established an encampment.

He scowled, now. Terrans on Mellidan VII? Why? Why?

“Contact has been made with the Mellidani leaders, sir,” Kumagon said gently.

Bork drew his eyes from the Terran dome. It seemed to him he could almost see the Terrans moving about within it, pale-skinned, ten-fingered, almost repellingly hairy men with that sly expression always on their faces—

Just imagination. He sighed.

“Transfer the line up here,” Bork said to his adjutant. “I’ll talk to them from my chair.”

* * *

Bork sprawled in a leisure-loving way into the intricate reticulations of the webfoam chair; he nudged a stud at its base and the chair began to quiver gently, massaging him, easing the stress-and-fatigue poisons from his muscles. After a moment, the communicator screen lit up, breaking into the wide-periphery view of the landscape.

Three Mellidani faced him squarely. They were chalk-white and without hair: their eyes were set deep in their round skulls, ringed with massive orbital ridges, veiled from time to time by fast-flickering nictitating membranes, while their mouths—if mouths they were—were but thin lipless slits. Three nostrils formed a squat triangle midway between eyes and mouth, while cupped processes jutting from the sides of the head seemed to equate with ears. Bork was not surprised at this superficial resemblance to the standard humanoid type; there is a certain most efficient pattern of construction for an erect humanoid biped, and virtually all such life adheres to it.

The emissary said, “I greet you in the name of the Federation of Worlds. My name is Holis Bork; my title, Emissary.”

The centermost of the aliens moved his lipless mouth; words came forth. The linguistic pattern, too, adhered to norms. “I am Leader this month. My name is unimportant. What does your Federation want with us?”

It was the expected quasi-belligerent response. Twenty years of emissary duties had reduced the operation to a series of conditioned reflexes, so far as Bork was concerned. Stimulus A produced Response B, which was dealt with by means of Technique C.

He said, “The Federation is composed of four hundred eighty-five worlds scattered throughout some thirty thousand light-years. Its capital and First Planet is Vengo in the Darkir system; its member peoples live in unmatched unity. Current Federation population is twenty-seven billion people. Membership in the Federation will guarantee you free and equal rights, full representation, and the complete benefits of a Galactic civilization that has been in existence for eleven thousand years.”

He paused triumphantly with soundless fanfare. The array of statistics was calculated to arouse a feeling of awe and lead naturally to the next group of response-leads. The Federation’s psychometrists had perfected this technique over millennia.

But the Mellidani leader’s reaction jarred Bork. The alien said, “Why is it that the Terrans do not belong to the Federation?”

Bork had been ready with the next concept-group; he had already begun to bring forth the second phase of his argument when the impact of the Mellidani’s sudden irrelevant question slammed into his nervous system and set the neat circuitry of his mind oscillating wildly.

It was a dizzy moment. But Bork had his nerves under control almost instantly, and a moment later had formulated a new pat reply he hoped would cover the new situation.

“The Terrans,” he said, “did not choose to enter the Federation—thereby demonstrating that they lack the wisdom and maturity of a truly Galactic-minded race.”

* * *

It was impossible to tell what emotions were in play behind the alien’s almost inflexible features. Bork found himself trembling; he docketed a mental note to have a neural overhaul when he returned to Vengo.

The alien said, “You imply by this that the Federation worlds are superior to the Terran worlds. In what way?”

Again Bork’s nerves were jolted. The interview was taking a very unpredictable pattern indeed. Damn those Terrans, he thought. And double-damn Security for allowing them to get a foothold here with an emissary on his way!

Sweat dribbled down the emissary’s olive-green skin. His military collar was probably drooping by now. He rooted in his mind for some sequence of arguments that would answer the stubborn alien’s question, and at length came up with:

“The Federation worlds are superior in that they have complete homogeneity of thought, feeling, and purpose. We have a common ground for intellectual endeavor and for commercial traffic. We share laws, works of art, ways of thinking. The Earthmen have deliberately placed themselves beyond the pale of this communion—cut themselves off from every other civilized world of the galaxy.”

“They have not cut themselves off from us. They came here quite willingly and have lived here during three Leaderships.”

“They mean to corrupt you,” Bork said desperately. “To lead you away from the right path. They are malicious: unable to enter Galactic society themselves through their own antisocial tendencies, they try now to drag an innocent world into the same quagmire, the same—”

Bork stopped suddenly. His hands were shaking; his body was bathed in perspiration. He realized gloomily that for the first time in his career he had no notion whatever of the next line of thought to pursue.

Promotion, glory, past achievements—all down the sink because of failure now, here? He swallowed hard.

“We’ll continue our discussions tomorrow,” he said hoarsely. “I would not think of keeping you from your daily work.”

“Very well. Tomorrow the man at my left will be Leader. Address your words then to him.”

In the state he was in, Bork had little further interest in protocol. He broke the contact hastily, and sank back in the cradle of webfoam, tense, sweat-drenched.

The pouch of his tunic yielded three green-gold pellets: metabolic compensators. Bork gobbled them hurriedly, and, as his body returned to normal equilibrium, sank back to brood over the ignominious course of the interview.

* * *

Naturally, Bork thought, the conversation had been monitored and recorded. That meant that Vyn Kumagon and six or seven technicians had been eye-witness to the emissary’s fumbling handling of the first interview—and, with the interview already permanently locked into a cellular recorder, there would be many more eavesdroppers, a long chain of them between here and Vengo and the First Warden.

Bork knew he had to redeem himself.

High faith had been placed in him—but who could have anticipated a Terran counter-propaganda force on Mellidani VII? It had shattered his calm.

He would have to rethink his approach.

Undeniably, the Terrans were here. And undeniably they had made overtures of some sort toward the aliens. Of what sort? That was the missing datum. The keystone of all possible speculations was missing—the purpose of the Terrans.

Did they have some strategic use intended for Mellidan VII? That seemed improbable, in view of the world’s forbidding nature. No Terran colony could survive here without the protection of a dome. Unless, he thought coldly, they meant to take over the planet and convert it into a new Earth, as they had done with Sol II, Sol IV, and one of the moons of Sol VI. That would mean the death or deportation of the Mellidani, but would the Terrans worry long over that?

Yet—why would they pick an inhabited world for such a project, when there yet remained a dead planet in their own system? Bork forced himself to reject the colonization plan as implausible under any circumstances.

Perhaps Terra had some yet unknown economic need that Mellidan VII met. Perhaps—

Bork’s head ached. Speculation was not easy for him. After a while he rose and went below to seek sleep.

* * *

There was a fixed routine for the assimilation of worlds into the Federation. It was a routine developed over thousands of years—ever since Vengo spread out to absorb its three sister worlds, eleven thousand years Galactic before, and the Federation was born. The routine customarily was successful.

Growth had been slow, at first. Two solar systems the first millenium, yielding five inhabited worlds. Then three systems the second millennium, with four worlds. Eleven worlds the next, seventeen the next—

Until four hundred eighty-five worlds had been folded into the protective warmth of the Federation, nineteen during Bork’s own lifetime. Only four worlds had ever refused to come in—the four Terran worlds, approached five times without success over the preceding two centuries. And now, Mellidan VII showed signs of recalcitrance. Bork resolved to use the age-old phrases and persuasion techniques until the Mellidani were unable to resist.

Violence, of course was shunned; the Federation had outgrown that millennia ago. But there were other methods.

When the Mellidani trio returned on the following day for their meeting with Bork, the emissary was ready for them, nerves soothed, mind primed and alert. Today, he noticed, the order had indeed been shuffled. The monthly changeover in planetary leadership had taken place.

Bork said, “Yesterday we were discussing the advantages of Federation membership for your world. You suggested that you might be more sympathetic to the Terrans than you are to us. Would you care to tell me just what guarantees the Terrans have made to you?”

“None.”

“But—”

“The Terrans have warned us against entering your Federation. They say your promises are false, that you will deceive us and swallow us up in your hugeness.”

Bork stiffened. “Did they ask you to sign any sort of treaty with them?”

“No. None whatever.”

“Then what have they been doing here since they landed?” Bork demanded, exasperated.

“Taking measurements of our planet, making scientific studies, exploring and learning. They have also been telling us somewhat about your Federation and warning us against you.”

“They have no right to poison your minds against us! We came here in good faith to demonstrate to you how it was to your advantage to join the Federation.”

“And the Terrans came in good faith to tell us the opposite,” returned the alien implacably. Bork had a sudden sense of the unfleshliness of the creature, of its strange hydrocarbon chemistry and its chlorine-breathing lungs. It seemed to him that the stiff white face of the Mellidani was a mask that hid only other masks within.

“Whom should we believe?” the alien asked. “You—or the Terrans?”

Bork moistened tension-parched lips. “The Earthmen clearly lie. We have brought with us films and charts of Galactic progress. The Federation is plainly preferable to the rootless, companionless life the Terrans have chosen. Be reasonable, friends. Should you cut yourself off from the main current of Galactic life by refusing to join the Federation? You’re intelligent; I can see that immediately. Why withdraw? If you decline to Federate, it will become impossible for you to have cultural or commercial interchange with any of the Federated worlds. You—”

“Answer this question, please,” said the Mellidani abruptly. “Why is this Federation of yours necessary?”

“What?”

“Why can’t we have these contacts without joining?”

“Why … because—”

Bork gasped like a creature jerked suddenly from its natural element. This sudden nerve-shattering question had thrust itself between his ribs like a keen blade.

He realized he had no answer to the alien’s question. No glib catch-phrases rose to his lips. He sputtered inanely, reddened, and finally took recourse to the same tactic of retreat he had employed the day before.

“This is a question that requires further study. I’ll take it up with you tomorrow at this time.”

The Mellidani faded from the glowing screen. Emissary Bork made contact with Adjutant Kumagon and said, “Get in touch with the Terrans. There has to be an immediate conference with them.”

“At once,” Kumagon said.

Bork scowled. The adjutant seemed almost pleased. Was that the shadow of a smile flickering on the man’s lips?

* * *

Later that day a hatch near the firing tubes of the Federation ship pivoted open and the shining beetle-like shape of a landcar dropped through, its treads striking the barren Mellidani soil and carrying it swiftly away. Aboard were Emissary Holis Bork and two aides—Fifth Attaché Hu Sdreen and Third Attaché Brul Dirrib.

The landcar sped across the ground, through the shallow pools of precipitated carbon tetrachloride, through the low-hanging thick murk of the sky, and minutes later arrived at the violet-hued Terran habitation dome.

There, a hatch swung open, admitting the car to an air lock. The hatch sealed hissingly; a second lock irised open, and air—oxynitrogen air—bellied in. Several Terrans were waiting as Bork and his aides stepped from the landcar.

Bork felt uneasy in their presence. They were trim, lean, efficient-looking men, all clad more or less alike. One, older than the rest, came forward and lifted his hand in a formal Federation salute, which Bork automatically returned.

“I’m Major general Gambrell,” the Terran said, speaking fluent Federation. The second mission to Terra had educated the natives in the Galactic tongue, and they had never forgotten it. “I’m in charge here for the time being,” Gambrell said. “Suppose you come on up to my office and we can talk this thing over.”

Gambrell led the way up a neat row of low metal houses and entered one several stories high; Bork followed him, signaling for the aides to remain outside. When they were within, Gambrell seated himself behind a battered wooden desk, fished in his pocket, and produced a cigarette pack. He offered it to Bork.

“Care to have a smoke?”

“Sorry,” the emissary said, repressing his disgust. “We don’t indulge.”

“Of course. I forgot.” Gambrell smiled apologetically. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

Bork shrugged. “Not at all.”

Gambrell flicked the igniting capsule at the cigarette’s tip, waited a moment, then puffed at the other end. He looked utterly relaxed. Bork was sharply tuned for this meeting; every nerve was tight-strung.

The Earthman said, “All right. Just why have you requested this meeting, Emissary Bork?”

“You know our purpose here on Mellidan VII?” Bork asked.

“Certainly. You’re here to enroll the Mellidani in your Federation.”

Bork nodded. “Our aim is clear to you, then. But why are you here, Major general Gambrell? Why has Earth established this outpost?”

The Earthman ran one hand lightly through the close-cropped thatch of graying hair that covered most of his scalp. Bork thought of the vestigial topknot that was his only heritage from the past, and smiled smugly. After a moment Gambrell said, “We’re here to keep Mellidan VII from joining the Federation. Is that clear enough?”

“It is,” Bork said tightly. “May I ask what you hope to gain by this deliberate interference? I suppose you plan to use Mellidan VII as some sort of military base, no doubt.”

“No.”

Bork had gained flexibility during the past few days. He shot an instant rejoinder at the Earthman: “In that case you must have some commercial purpose in mind. What?”

The Earthman shook his head. “Let me be perfectly honest with you, Emissary Bork. We don’t have any actual use for Mellidan VII. It’s just too alien a world for oxygen-breathers to use without conversion.”

Bork frowned. “You have no use for Mellidan VII? But … then … that means you came here solely for the purpose of … of—”

“Right. Of keeping it out of the Federation’s hands.”

* * *

The man’s arrogance stunned Bork. That Earth should wantonly block a Federating mission for no reason at all—

“This is a very serious matter,” Bork said.

“I know. More serious than you yourself think, Emissary Bork. Look here: suppose you tell me why the Federation wants Mellidan VII, now?”

Bork glared at the infuriatingly calm Earthman. “We want it because … because—”

He stopped. The question paralleled the ones the Mellidani leader had asked. It produced the same visceral reaction. These basic questions hit deep, he thought. And there were no ready answers for them.

Gambrell said smoothly, “I see you’re in difficulties. Here’s an answer for you—you want it simply because it’s there. Because for eleven thousand years you’ve Federated every planet you could, swallowed it up in your benevolent arms, thoroughly homogenized its culture into yours and blotted out any minor differences that might have existed. You don’t see any reason to stop now. But you don’t have any possible use for this world, do you? You can’t trade with it, you can’t colonize here, you can’t turn it into a vacation resort. For the first time in your considerable history you’ve run up against an inhabited world that’s utterly useless as Federation stock. But you’re trying to Federate it anyway.”

“We—”

“Keep quiet,” said the Earthman sharply. “Don’t try to argue, because you don’t know how to argue. Or to think. Vengo’s ruled the roost so long you’ve reduced every cerebral process to a set of conditioned reflexes. And when you strike an exception to a pattern, you just steamroll right on ahead. You find a planet, so you offer it a place in the Federation and proceed to digest it alive. What function does this Federation of yours serve, anyway?”

Bork was on solid ground here. “It serves as a unifying force that holds together the disparate worlds of the galaxy, bringing order out of confusion.”

“O.K. I’ll buy that statement, even if it does come rolling out of you automatically.” The Earthman hunched forward and his eyes fixed coldly on Bork’s. “The Federation’s so big and complex that it hasn’t yet learned that it died three thousand years ago. Its function atrophied, dried up, vanished. Foosh! The galaxy is orderly; trade routes are established, patterns of cultural contact built, war forgotten. There’s no longer any need for a benevolent tyranny operating out of Vengo that makes sure the whole thing doesn’t come apart. But still you go on, bringing the joys of Federation from planet to planet, as if the same chaotic situation prevails now that prevailed in those barbaric days when your warlord ancestors first came down out of Vengo to conquer the universe.”

Bork sat very quietly. He was thinking: the Terran is insane. The things he says have no meaning. The Federation dead? Nonsense!

“I knew the Earthmen were fools, but I didn’t think they were morons as well,” the emissary said out loud, lightly. “Anyone can see that the Federation is alive and healthy, and will be for eternity to come.”

“Federations don’t last that long. They don’t even last half an eternity. And yours died millennia ago. It’s like some great beast whose nervous system is so slow on the trigger it takes hours to realize that it’s dead. Well, the Federation will last a couple of thousand years more, on its accumulated momentum. But it’s dead now.”

Bork rose. “I can’t spend any further time on this kind of foolish talking,” he said wearily. “I’ll have to get back to my base.” He fingered the glittering platinum ornaments on his stiff green jacket. “And I don’t intend to give up trying to Federate the Mellidani, despite your obstructions.”

Gambrell chuckled in an oddly offensive manner. “Keep at it, then. Keep on mouthing clichés and giving them hollow arguments that fall to flinders when you poke at the roots. We’ve warned the Mellidani. Besides, they can think for themselves, and aren’t impressed easily by big words and gilded phrases. They won’t be suckers for your routine.”

* * *

Bork was very quiet for a long moment, staring stonily at the Earthman, trying to see behind those ice-cool gray eyes. At length he said, “Is this all just petty spite on your part? Why are you doing this, Gambrell? If you Terrans don’t want to enter the Federation, why don’t you keep off by yourselves and stop meddling with our activities?”

“Because the Mellidani represent something unique in the galaxy,” Gambrell said. “And because we see their value, even if you don’t. Do you know what would happen if you Federated the Mellidani? Within a century you’d have to exterminate them or expel them from the Federation. They’re alien, Bork. Totally and absolutely and unchangeably alien. They don’t breathe the same kind of atmosphere you do. They don’t digest the same foods. Their lungs don’t work on the principles yours do. Neither do their brains.”

“What does this—”

Gambrell cut him off and continued unstoppably. “They’re a cosmic fluke, Bork. They don’t conform to the oxygen-carbon pattern of life, and they might very well be the only race in the universe that doesn’t. We can’t afford to let the Federation come in here and destroy them. And you will destroy them, because they’re different and the Federation can’t abide differences that can’t be smoothed out by a little deportation and ideological manipulation and genetic monkeying.”

“I wish I could follow this ridiculous line of chatter,” Bork snapped savagely. “But I’m afraid I’m wasting your time and mine. Please excuse me.”

Sighing, Gambrell said, “You just don’t listen to me, do you?”

“I’ve been listening. What’s so important about this uniqueness of these people that must be preserved at all costs?”

Instead of answering, Gambrell crisply said, “Close your right eye, Bork. You’re right-handed, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Close your right eye. There. Suddenly you lose depth perception, notice? Your eyes function stereoscopically; knock out one point of focus and you see things two-dimensionally. Well, we see things two-dimensionally, Bork, all of us. The whole galaxy does. We see things through the eyes of oxygen-breathing carbon entities, and we distort everything to fit that orientation.

“The Mellidani could be our second eye. If we leave them alone, free to look at events and phenomena in their own special alien unique way—they can provide that other point of focus for us. We have to preserve this thing they have; if we let the Federation destroy it by lumping them into the vast all-devouring amoeba of confederate existence, we may never find another race quite so alien, just as we can never regenerate a blinded eye. That’s why we poisoned their minds against you. That’s why we got here first and made sure they would never join the Federation. And they won’t.”

Angrily, Bork said, “They will! This is ridiculous!”

Gambrell shrugged. “Go ahead, then. Speak ye to the Mellidani, and see how far you get. This isn’t an ordinary race you’re dealing with. Incidentally, the Mellidani leader has been listening to this whole conversation over a private circuit.”

That was the final gesture of contempt. Bork surged to the door, rage clotting his throat, and stalked out of Gambrell’s office wordlessly. Federation dead, indeed! Point of focus! The Federation would absorb the Mellidani, no doubt of it. They would!

He reached ground-level and found his aides. “Let’s get back to the ship,” Bork ordered brusquely. “I want to speak to the Mellidani again. The Earthmen haven’t won this conflict yet.”

They drove through the clinging yellow-green fog to the slim needle that was the Federation ship. As they drove, Bork cast frantically about in his mind for some argument that was new, that was not cliché-riddled and time-worn. And no answers presented themselves.

He felt panic throbbing in his chest. The first dark cracks were starting to appear on the gleaming shield of his self-confidence—and, perhaps, on the greater shield of the Federation’s vaunted prestige. The Earthman’s words echoed harshly in his mind. You’ll never get Mellidan VII. The Federation is dead. Point of focus. Alien viewpoint. Necessary. Perspective.

Then eleven thousand years of Galactic domination reasserted their hold. Bork grew calm; the Earthman’s words were air-filled nonsense, without meaning. Mellidan VII was not yet lost. Not yet.

We’ll show them, he thought fiercely. We’ll show them. But the old emissary’s heart suddenly was not quite sure they would.

Content

Silverberg Robert Point of Focus

Point of Focus by Robert Silverberg