Greenberg knew that the Rargyllian was saying as politely as possible that Greenberg could not act without Kiku. Greenberg decided that there was no sense in pretending otherwise. . . and besides, he was hungry. “Haven’t we worked enough today, Doctor? Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me?”
“I would be delighted! But. . . you know our peculiarities of diet?”
“Certainly. Remember, I spent some weeks with one of your compatriots. We can go to the Hotel Universal.”
“Yes, of course.” Dr. Ftaeml seemed unenthusiastic.
“Unless there is something you would like better?”
“I have heard of your restaurants with entertainment. . . would it be possible? Or is it. . .?”
“A night club?” Greenberg thought. “Yes! The Club Cosmic. Their kitchen can do anything the Universal can.
They were about to leave when a door dilated and a slender, swarthy man stuck his head in. “Oh. Excuse me. I thought Mr. Kiku was here.”
Greenberg remembered suddenly that the boss had summoned a relativity mathematician. “Just a moment You must be Dr. Singh.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. Mr. Kiku had to leave, I am here for him.”
He introduced the two and explained the problem. Dr. Singh looked over the Rargyllian’s scroll and nodded. “This will take a while.”
“May I help you, Doctor?” asked Ftaeml.
“It won’t be necessary. Your notes are quite complete.” Thus assured, Greenberg and Ftaeml went out on the town.
The floor show at the Club Cosmic included a juggler, which delighted Ftaeml, and girls, which delighted Greenberg. It was late by the time Greenberg left Ftaeml in one of the special suites reserved for non-human guests of DepSpace at Hotel Universal. Greenberg was yawning as he came down the lift, but decided that the evening had been worth while in the interest of good foreign relations.
Tired though he was, he stopped by the department. Dr. Ftaeml had spilled one item during the evening that he thought the boss should know. . . tonight if he could reach him, or leave it on his desk if not. The Rargyllian, in an excess of pleasure over the juggler, had expressed regret that such things must so soon cease to be.
“What do you mean?” Greenberg had asked.
“When mighty Earth is volatilized. . .” the medusoid had begun, then stopped.
Greenberg had pressed him about it. But the Rargylhan insisted that he had been joking.
Greenberg doubted if it meant anything. But Rargylhan humor was usually much more subtle; he decided to tell the boss about it as quickly as possible. Maybe that strange ship needed a shot of paralysis frequencies, a “nutcracker” bomb, and a dose of vacuum.
The night guard at the door stopped him. “Mr. Greenberg. . . the Under Secretary has been looking for you for the past half hour.”
He thanked the guard and hurried upstairs. Mr. ICiku he found bent over his desk; the incoming basket was clogged as always but the Under Secretary was paying no attention. He glanced up and said quietly, “Good evening, Sergei. Look at this.” He passed over a report.
It was Dr. Singh’s rework of Dr. Ftaeml’s notes. Greenberg picked out at the bottom the geocentric coordinates and did a quick sum. “Over nine hundred light-years!” he commented. “And out in that direction, too. No wonder we’ve never encountered them. Not exactly next door neighbors, eh?”
“Never mind that,” Mr. Kiku admonished. “Not the date. This computation is the Hroshii’s claim as to when and where they were visited by one of our ships.”
Greenberg looked and felt his eyebrows crawl up toward his scalp. He turned to the answer machine and started to code an inquiry. “Don’t bother,” Kiku told him. “Your recollection is correct. The Trail Blazer. Second trip.” •
“The Trail Blazer,” Greenberg repeated foolishly.
“Yes. We never knew where she went, so we couldn’t have guessed. But we know exactly when she went. It matches. Much simpler hypothesis than Dr. Ftaeml’s twin races.”
“Of course.” He looked at his boss. “Then it is-Lummox.”
“Yes, it’s Lummox.”
“But it can’t be Lummox. No hands. Stupid as a rabbit.”
“No, it can’t be. But it is.”
VII. “Mother Knows Best”