The Long Result by John Brunner Read Free Book Online Page B

BuCult. To write off the Stars Are For Man League as harmless eccentrics was no longer a tenable position. Whether or not the wrecking of our alien wagon was premeditated, whether or not the three – well, slobs, to borrow Rattray’s term – had had advance information of the Tau Cetians’ arrival, was beside the point; any lunatic-fringe belief which could provoke such action was
ipso facto
dangerous.
    I was going to have to file a report on the day’s activity. Somehow, by loading the terms in the report, I would have to convince Tinescu he was mistaken. It was a fascinating exercise in practical semantics. I was still deep in the phrasing of it when I approached the Bureau.
    With a start, I saw Jacky Demba coming out under the high arched doorway on which the Bureau’s motto was engraved in relief – the ancient Greek instruction which has to precede any dabbling in contact with alien races: KNOW THYSELF! He was deep in conversation with an alien. A Regulan, to be exact – a startlingly beautiful creature like all his kind.
    And the Regulan, aware of me long before Jacky because of his super-delicate senses, gave me a nod of recognition. This put me in the most embarrassing position imaginable. The differences by which Regulans recognized each other were far too subtle for any untrained human to identify. For all I knew, this might be the Regulan whom I had talkedto this morning, the one involved in last night’s rocket crash – or another entirely, whom I’d met only in passing when he came to visit the Bureau ten years back.
    I smiled as though I’d instantly remembered the alien’s name, and cast myself on Jacky’s mercies. He was used to dealing with this species, and doubtless was expert at telling them apart; equally, he would realize my difficulty.
    But he didn’t – not at once, at least. For he merely lifted a hand to me and said, ‘Did everything go off all right, Roald?’
    ‘More or less. Where are you off to?’
    ‘I’m finished for the day,’ he said, faintly surprised.
    I checked my watch, and found it was indeed after sixteen-thirty, the usual closing-time. I hadn’t realized it was so late. I muttered a private oath.
    ‘Is the Chief still in?’ I demanded.
    ‘Yes, I think so – though not likely to stay very late. Waiting for your report, perhaps?’ Luckily he didn’t follow that question up, but glanced at the Regulan, who was standing to one side and affecting out of politeness not to listen.
    ‘Anovel, this is Roald Vincent, one of my colleagues here at the Bureau —’
    I cut in, relieved beyond description. ‘We met this morning just for a few minutes. I hope you’re completely recovered from the effects of the rocket crash?’
    ‘Thank you, yes. It would take something like a nuclear explosion to put a dent in my hide.’ The Regulan extended the more delicate of his two right ‘arms’ and I shook the eight-fingered ‘hand’ on the end. This species was unfailingly correct in its observance of the social graces.
    Like all adult specimens of his kind. Anovel stood some five feet eight or nine in height, and his resemblance to a horse was remarkable. He had the same long, rather sad-looking head, and twin nostril-sheaths rose above his eyes to give the effect of a horse’s ears. His skin was a vivid andbeautiful blue, while the mane which ran down the nape of his neck was as yellow as a buttercup. He had four ‘arms’, multiply jointed limbs of which two were slender and terminated in the incredibly deft ‘hands’, while the others were muscled like the hindquarters of a Percheron. Purely in deference to Earthly custom, a kilt was belted about his waist and fell to the backward-bending knees of his long legs. He wore nothing else – and indeed did not even need to wear that much, for these paradoxical beasts could be comfortable over a temperature range of at least two hundred degrees, and alone of the known races could utilise oxygen, chlorine or their native