“The same situation your greeting party will be in,
Commander.”
72
Space Opera
“Quite true. Those gentlemen, however, will be present because they are essential to the success of the operation.” Cleve left the obvious correlation unsaid.
“Should you assume a position anywhere near the Reykjavik, any emergency maneuvering the ship would be impelled to perform would incinerate your crew instantly! As for newsmen’s risks, I am compelled to remind you that you are along on this mission on sufferance. Your safety and well-being are solely my responsibility.”
“Bull! First, I’m along because my reputation warrants it and Channel Three’s worldwide facilities wangled it. And as to newsmen’s risks, as you so quaintly put it, my crews and I have indeed faced far greater risks than this!”
“Nevertheless, I—”
“Okay, okay! Spare me the officialese. I’ll have only two crews, both set up at a good distance from the Reykjavik, They’ll manage with telephotos.”
Hinkel reached into the leather case on his lap and pulled out a thick stack of brightly colored papers. “Now. Win Hunter, my chief writer, has come up with what I think are some really socko suggestions for the actual ceremony of contact. You know, greeting the mysterious aliens, and all. If you’d care to peruse them, I’m sure …”
Cleve’s chair was displaying marked evidence of a highly localized seismic disturbance. Vandermeer moved quickly forward.
“Um … Commander, I was thinking …”
“Relax, Lieutenant. I’m quite . . . quite all right,” Cleve said, reaching out and gracefully accepting the proffered suggestions.