Robert Silverberg - Collision Course

“We are not judging you here,” replied the Rosgollan voice levelly. “We are merely mediating a dispute between two races. Two young races, be it understood. In order to mediate successfully, we must establish our authority, we must demonstrate our strength. It is the only way to deal with children,” the Rosgollan said.

“With…”

“ Children , yes. Life has come late to your galaxy. As yet, only two intelligent races have evolved there—energetic, vigorous races. For the first time the paths of these young races have crossed. Your fledgling empires soon would be at war without our mediation. We take it upon ourselves, therefore— acting in the interest of the races of the universe, of which we are neither the oldest nor the most powerful—to prevent this war.

“Therefore limits will be drawn for the empire of Earth, and limits for the empire of Norgla. You shall not exceed these bounds in your search for colonies. And in this way your galaxy shall live in peace, forever and to all eternity, world without end.”

It was done. And, though the Archonate knew nothing of the treaty, every one of the nine Earthmen realized that what they had done was irrevocable.

Through some magic of their own, the Rosgollans had conjured up, out there in the meadow, a scale model of the island universe that contained Earth and Norgla. It drifted in midair, a spiral with two curving snakelike arms, composed of millions and millions of glowing points of light. The model, breathtaking in its white loveliness, looked authentic as it hung there, a flattened lens ten feet long, shining with a cold brilliance.

Suddenly, springing up within the galactic model, a line of green light picked out a sphere perhaps a foot in diameter, a glowing vacuole within the protozoan-shape that was the galactic model.

“This is the Terran sphere of dominion,” a Rosgollan voice silently informed.

An instant later a second sphere sprang into glowing life, this one red, of virtually the same size, and located halfway across the model.

“This is the Norglan sphere of dominion,” came the Rosgollan admonition.

Earthmen and Norglans stared at the model, and at the two puny stellar empires ringed out within it. They waited, knowing what was to come.

A searingly bright line of fierce violet zigzagged out across the model, dividing it from rim to core, lancing between the tight-packed stars to partition the galaxy into two roughly equal segments. The model looked now like a microorganism in the first stages of fission; the violent blaze of the violet boundary assailed all eyes. Bernard looked away; he saw the others doing the same.

Colors began to spread all across the model, the green light filling all the Terran half, the red streaming over all the Norglan suns. The Rosgollan said, “These shall be the everlasting boundaries of your dominions. Crossing them for any reason will bring immediate retribution from beyond your galaxy. You each are absolute masters within your own sectors, but there must be no trespassing.”

“We—we have no right to enter into a binding agreement without informing our government of the course of action,” Stone protested stammeringly. “We quite frankly lack the power to…”

“The arrangements concluded here will be binding,” replied the Rosgollan. “Let us not obscure the facts. Formal consent of high officials will not be necessary in this matter. This is not a treaty being arrived at by mutual negotiation; it is an imposition from without. The situation is clear. You will obey the establishment of the boundary line. No alternative is open to you.”

There it was in the open, Bernard thought. Treaties are made between powers of equal sovereignty. This was something different, a blunt command.

The Norglans, not very surprisingly, looked agitated by the open statement of intent. Skrinri declared, “You—order us to obey your decision…?”

“Yes. We order you. These are the boundaries. You will keep within them; and you will cease to threaten each other with war. We command this in the name of galactic harmony, and we will not tolerate deviation. Is that understood?”

Eleven figures stared dumbly at the model and at the eerie creatures that had created it. No one spoke, neither Earthman nor Norglan. Several seconds ticked by in silence, without a reply.

“ Is that understood ?” demanded the Rosgollan again, with some acerbity.

Someone had to speak, to admit what everyone already privately accepted as the dictates of necessity. Martin Bernard shrugged and said quietly, “Yes. We understand the situation.”

“And the men of Norgla?”

“We understand,” Skrinri said, echoing not only Bernard’s words but his tone of resignation.

“It is done, then.”

The divided model winked out.

“You will be returned to your home planets. There you will inform the heads of your governments of the existence of the boundary lines we have just created. You will warn your governments that any transgression of these boundaries will lead to instant punishment.”

It was done.

Irrevocably?

Unarguably?

Light swirled blindingly around the stolid, heavy figures of the Norglan negotiators, and immediately they hazed over and were gone. An instant later, most of the Rosgollans had been translated elsewhere the same way.

And a fraction of a second after that, the Earthmen felt a swathe of warm light engulf them—and, without any sensation of transition, they found themselves once again standing just outside their ship.

Out of the silence came a Rosgollan voice in gentle command.

“Enter your ship,” it ordered quietly. “We will restore you to the galaxy in which you belong.”

Bernard lifted his eyes momentarily, caught those of Laurance. The Commander looked baffled, blocked, humiliated. Laurance glanced away. Bernard did not look at anyone else. The entire group of Earthmen, silent, shamefaced, clambered one by one into the waiting ship.

Peterszoon, the last man to come aboard, activated the hatch controls, swinging the entry gate shut and dogging it tightly in place. There was the faint hiss as the pressure equalizers purred into action. Laurance and his crewmen filed through the ship to their quarters up front in the nose. Bernard, Havig, Stone, and Dominici went wearily aft, to the passenger cabin.

No one spoke.

The four men in the rear cabin took blastoff places and waited uncertainly, each averting his eyes from those of the man opposite him. The common feeling of depression, of supreme humiliation, dampened spirits.

The ship lifted almost immediately, without the slightest sensation of having blasted off. The vessel simply was detached from the ground and floated spaceward, as though escape velocity on Rosgolla were zero, and mass and inertia just so many meaningless words.

It was Stone who finally broke the clammy silence as the ship sprang upward.

“So that’s that,” he muttered bitterly, staring at the wall. “We’ve got quite a story to tell when we get home! I’ll really make a splash. The bold Earthmen encounter not one alien race but two , and the second one kicked us around a little harder than the other. But we sure came off third best in that little conference!”

Dominici shook his head in disagreement. “I wouldn’t say we did so badly.”

“No?” Stone challenged.

“Not at all,” Dominici maintained. “I’d say the Norglans came out a good sight poorer off than we did, after all was said and done. Don’t forget that originally the Norglans were claiming the entire universe except for our little sphere, before the Rosgallans stepped in. And now the blueskins are held down to a mere fifty-fifty split of one galaxy, nothing more!”