An Inappropriate Response


The Denebians landed on the Mall between the Vietnam and Korean War Memorials at about 8:15 on a Monday morning,
which is how they escaped major notice.  The trans-star drive allows for almost instantaneous movement between two
points, and the Denebians were parked before you knew it.  DC drivers, notoriously intent on cutting off their fellows and
proudly blasé about their monuments, didn't look over.  There weren't a lot of tourists about, either, and those who
were thought the copper-looking two-story box just another museum.  When the three Denebian crewmen emerged, a
couple from New Jersey tried to enter, but were politely rebuffed.  The couple was sufficiently inured to oddballs that the
crewmen, dressed in what appeared to be aluminum foil and Ipods, did not elicit much comment.

Nor did they from the DC drivers as the Denebians made their leisurely way across the Mall to Constitution Avenue,
pointing out the sights to each other with short fingered slightly emerald hands and doing something akin to taking
pictures with the Ipod-looking things.  "Tourists," the intent drivers snorted and tried to frighten them with exceedingly
dangerous maneuvers.  But when you've spent the last week playing Dodge Comet in the Oort Cloud, you don't scare
easily.

Eventually, the Denebians found themselves in the lobby of the State Department building, the guards assuming they were
just one more act in the daily circus parade that constituted official legations.  A very efficient desk clerk thought the same
thing and was quite disturbed that such an obviously important tribal delegation had shown up unannounced and
unappointed.  "Take us to your leader," one of the Denebians responded to her query, causing the other two to chuckle.  
The desk clerk knew the leaders were off solving some other tribal concern, so she called around until she located an
Assistant Assistant Undersecretary for Policy.

His name was Thurston Henry Cadwallader, III, "Third" to his few friends, "Thud" to everyone else, and he had ambitions
and grievances to match the exalted name, which had been inherited down the line of patrimony from proven forebears to
his unproven self.  Some of those forebears had quietly despaired of the bloodline manifesting in Thud, an attitude of
which he was acutely aware.  The phone call from the desk clerk, then, caused his flagging hopes to soar.

"Deneb?" he said.  "Never heard of it."

"They said it was pretty far," the clerk assured.

"Obviously," Third put on his best Harvard-legacy voice, letting the clerk know her place.  "Well, don't leave them standing,
show them in.  And call Protocol."

The Denebians took three chairs across from Third, waving off his apologies for slothful underlings who had the temerity
to leave such important representatives waiting.  "Are you the leader?" the one who spoke before asked.

"No, no, well, at least not yet," and he chuckled.  So did the Denebians, still unsure of the nuances of Terran humor, it
being a rather unique thing in the Galaxy.  Third saw it as appreciation.  "So," he said, sensing a career-making
opportunity, "what can I do for you gentlemen?"

The Denebians let that pass, knowing from the few primitive radio and TV broadcasts the council had received, that
Terrans were unfamiliar with the quadra-sex roles most common to the rest of the Galaxy.  "We were in the neighborhood,
decided to drop by."

Third furrowed his brow and wondered what quaint tribal ritual was involved here because no indigenous peoples came to
the State Department simply to pass the time.  Trade agreements, border disputes, negotiations of some kind, yes, but
these little countries had their dignities and needed to play out some face-saving move before availing of Uncle Sam's
largesse.  The trick was recognizing the play and indulging it to a fruitful conclusion.  This was hazardous, because Third
hadn't the foggiest of Denebian protocols and just might well botch this, as seemed to be his wont.

Fortunately, just as Third began to sweat, the Protocol Officer, Charles Widden, knocked and entered.  Third was relieved
but Widden was alarmed because he knew immediately these were not ordinary visitors.  That was Widden's particular
value, the ability to quickly size a situation, and he considered, then discarded, an urge to call Security.  Seeing that the
obviously other-world delegation had penetrated this far, Security would be pointless.

"Hello," Widden said in as neutral a way possible, "and welcome," and then said nothing more nor offered a hand or bow,
coolly letting the Denebians take the point.  Third thought this was customary and tried to appear sage.

"Well, thank you," the Denebian said with some relief, recognizing Widden's professionalism, and offered the
short-fingered hand because he (or she or a combination either way) knew this as a comforting Terran gesture.  Widden
took it with no trepidation, figuring an advanced race was well aware of contagions and would have taken precautions,
unless plague was their intent, in which case there was little to save him.  Third furrowed his brow, expecting something a
little more exotic.

"You are from... "  Widden deferred again to the Denebians, conveying none of his consternation nor the numerous
calculations he was making about necessary notifications and the complete revamping of standard State responses.  
"Deneb," Third answered for them, mostly because he did not want Widden gaining an upper hand in these negotiations.  
"Which, I'm a little embarrassed to say," Third spread placating, folksy hands, "I've forgotten is the capitol of which desert
kingdom?"  Dangerous, that, to admit geographic ignorance in an organization proud of its global knowledge, but Third
needed to know right away if oil or mineral rights were at stake here.  Perhaps both?

Widden lifted a half-astonished eyebrow, realizing Thud had not caught on to the situation, but only half because, well,
what did you expect? The Denebians chuckled, truly appreciating this humor because mistaken identity was a universal.  
"It's a star," the Denebian said.

"No doubt," Third smiled because the indigenous were given to hyperbole, "but what are your main exports?  Cotton,
rice?"  Perhaps he could gain a clue from that.  The Denebians looked at each other and passed what they considered a
shrug between them.  "Stantatac drives, I guess," their spokesman said.

Third was puzzled but Widden, who had only attended George Washington but had been a good student with wide
ranging interests, was intrigued.  "Isn't Deneb a white supergiant?"

"Indeed," the Denebian nodded vigorously, "the giantest."  Which was only slight exaggeration, Deneb having been
certified by the District Council as one of the five or six largest white stars in the galaxy, despite the objections of the
Arcturans, who had no dog in that fight but were just contrary.

"But," Widden was now suspicious, the limits of Earth science leading him to the inevitable error, "how can that be?  I
mean, how could you survive the radiation and gravity?  And you're humanoid," his gesture took in their form which, given
his quite sophisticated understanding of current, but incorrect, Terran planetary theory, was impossible near such a harsh
star.  The Denebians should be radically different, worms, perhaps, or crystals.

The Denebians chuckled indulgently.  Oh these pre-trans cultures and their quaint beliefs.  "All intelligent life takes this
form," the spokesman made a gracious pass of a hand.  "More efficacious."

"Really?" Widden was nonplussed, "even under such conditions?  How can you withstand it?"

The Denebians smiled.  "Dark matter, of course."

"Really?" and here Widden was excited.  To be the first human to know the riddle of dark matter!  He swallowed.  "And
what exactly is that?"

The three Denebians smiled, joyous, not patronizing, lifted their eyes to the ceiling and said together, "The grace of God."

And this is the point where everything went wrong.  While Widden experienced shock at the implications of the Denebian
response, Thud did not.  His reaction was a bit different.  He had become increasingly bewildered ever since the mention of
a white supergiant, which he'd presumed was an important Denebian deity.  The subsequent conversation had been quite
baffling.  His glances toward Widden had become more daggerish as he concluded the somewhat lesser officer was
invoking a set of arcane protocols designed to cut Third out of the process.  He saw his primacy in this delicate matter
disappearing, along with the inevitable accolades and the easing of the patrimony's despair.

That was his mood when the Denebians simultaneously spoke, and he could not help himself.  After all, he came out of
blue blood and Ivy League-everything and, while he could never be described as scholarly, he had imbued the zeitgeist.  If
you wanted invitation to the better houses (and parties), certain combining attitudes of postmodernist deconstructive
condescension were necessary.

So, Thud snorted.

The Denebians started and their jaws dropped fairly akin to the way Bugs Bunny's used to, although not half as far.  That
was rather startling to Widden and Thud, the latter getting the uneasy feeling things weren't as they seemed.  The
Denebians fixed their disconcerting looks directly on him.  "You don't believe in God?"

Salvage this! Thud's bloodline screamed, as did Widden's rather aghast expression, and sweat popped onto his forehead.  
Desperately, he raced through the templates and patterns of his prep school life and quickly cobbled together a standard
harmless response for Confrontation With Unsophisticated Churchmen: "I respect your beliefs but I, personally, don't hold
them."

The Denebians paled to a deep emerald, which Widden and Thud misinterpreted as an angry flush.  The crew exchanged
gestures any Terran would consider expressions of rage but were really alarm and terror.  That is why Widden and Thud
remained frozen, holding their breaths while the Denebians stood, looking all the world like they intended to phaser or light
sword the two of them when they, instead, sought safety.  The Denebians made a hasty exit, trouping out in a line that,
under other circumstances, would be comical.  Widden recovered quicker after the door slammed shut, saying to Thud at
the end of his released breath, "You idiot."

Denebians are pretty fast when they intend to be and, by the time Widden had stopped yelling at Thud in a manner
egregiously insulting to the patrimony and called Security, they were already across Constitution.  When sirens
approached, they made greater haste, weaving through the curious Japanese tour group gawking at the box, entered,
strapped in, and transported to a stationary orbit exactly 300 miles straight up, an event partially captured by Hideki Noh
on his Konica but which, because of the subsequent unfortunate events, held no benefit.

"My God! Atheists!" the first crewmen said, like Terrans would say 'Neanderthals!'  It was an understandable mistake, the
Council unaware of the deep complexity of Terran religious beliefs.  The only Terran broadcasts they knew were Burns and
Allen, Hitler's speeches, and I Love Lucy, those somehow hooking onto the wake of a trans-star freighter passage and
popping out for review.  What could you conclude from those?  The second Denebian was still trembling so added nothing
and the third was downright incredulous. "How," he said, throwing a still deep-emerald hand towards the Earth below, "can
a race so obviously primitive and barbaric have reached the point of space travel?"  They all three noted the International
Space Station and the numerous satellites and then looked at each other.

Denebians don't really need to speak; they do so because they find it interesting.  Most of their communication is angling
of various body parts, quite rapid, so, a few seconds later, when the third crewman grimly reached for the Stantatac drive,
they had all agreed this was a matter for the Council, that a decision would take some time (not because of distance, of
course, but due to the universal nature of bureaucracies, especially regarding such a weighty matter.  Worse, the
Arcturans had the Chair) and the threat must be contained in the interim.

When Thud had previously asked about exports, the Denebians weren't sure how to answer.  All Council cultures
manipulate molecules, which meant autonomy and no great concern over natural resources.  Everyone, then, had
Stantatac drives, although that was somewhat of a misnomer.  They were more like shields, able to repulse objects, and
were generally used for games like Dodge Comet or to diffuse a dispute when it got to the point of missiles being thrown
between angry worlds.

But each culture had a unique twist that gave advantage to a specific product and usually meant a brisk trade between
systems, with accompanying profit and loss and the occasional dispute leading to the toss of a missile.  Denebian
Stantatac drives were one such product because, unlike everyone else's, they could be thrown.  The shield could engulf an
area about two or three parsecs away from the generator, which was great for practical jokes, such as keeping someone
from opening their front door or a mating couple from each other.  Pretty funny stuff, although it could be taken too far
and result in a couple of missile exchanges between a Denebian practical joker and his (hers, whatever) target, especially if
that was a sour faced Arcturan.

In this case, though, the throwing of a shield was not a joke but a Godsend, and the Denebians noted the symmetry
between the problem of the Terran deviation and their presence in the area.  Suppose no one had ventured by in, oh say,
ten thousand years?  Godless Terrans overrunning the planetary systems!  The horror of that left them speechless (and
gestureless) and the crewman threw the shield around the Earth with something akin to heroic determination.  "There," he
said, "that'll hold 'em."  And it would.  He'd been careful to shape the shield so it encompassed the current orbits of Terran
satellites, but not allow anything beyond that.  The cancer was contained.  They all praised God and headed home to
report.

It took about eight months.  The Arcturans wanted to bring the three Denebians up on charges for unauthorized contact
with a primitive species, but use of nuclear power was the dividing line between primitive and modern, so that didn't wash.  
They then went after them for the Stantatac drive throw, but most other Council members (and everyone in every culture
was a full fledged member) considered them heroes for it.  "Imagine," just about everyone (except the Arcturans) said at
one time or another, "such godless barbarians loose in the Galaxy!"  "With nukes!" someone else would say and there'd be
a collective shudder.  By the time all that was sorted out and an expedition of Acolytes carrying the Thousand Books of
God assembled to go, some thought too much time had gone by and the Terrans may have figured out a way through the
drive and they were all in big trouble.

So there was much trepidation when the ships popped into 300-mile orbits surrounding the planet.  That quickly became
consternation. "You're sure this is the place?" the Chief Acolyte frowned at the Denebians.  "Yeah! This is it!" the first
crewman goggled at the ice world floating in front of them.  "It wasn't like that when we left it."

It took a bit to figure it out, and the Denebians felt really bad.  Seemed the settings of the Stantatac drive were normal for
Deneb, with its raging power, but a little too dense for Sol.  The shield had not only prevented anyone from leaving, but
also the little star's rays from entering.  Ice age, almost overnight, so to speak.  Nothing, and no one, left alive.

The Arcturans were all for execution of the three Denebians for accidental genocide, but there wasn't a lot of support.  
Considering the nature of the dead Terrans, it might not have been the mistake it seemed.

Could have been the grace of God.

D. Krauss