Every time, Joe thought. Every time it was like this. Sometimes sooner, sometimes longer. He went to the window and looked out upon the hundred or so craft from every part of the universe that lay on the landing field. That they represented genius incredibly far removed from his comprehension troubled O'Conners not at all. One of them, a huge vessel a mile and a half long and fifteen hundred feet in diameter had come almost three million light-years out of space, the farthest communication that men of Earth had yet had with other sentient beings.
But O'Conners was not impressed. He'd kept them in an orbit above Earth's barrier screen for three days while he checked their credentials.
If there had turned up the slightest inconsistency in the communication between their alien minds and his primtive Earth mentality, he'd have refused entry to their crippled and nearly helpless vessel. He would probably have let them die in space rather than let them down, Joe thought bitterly. The bureaucratic mind!
He stepped back to the desk and called his repair superintendent. "Winfield, have you heard anything new from the Nerane IV?"
"Not for the last five hours. They might be dead by now if they're in any serious personnel trouble aboard."
"Yeah, they might be, mightn't they? Just like six months ago when he held the Cordomarians off until nine of them died. Nine specimens of the most brilliant intellect we've ever known — sacrificed to a regulation. We're bringing them down. It's not going to happen again."
"But O'Conners - !"
"They have an ellipsoidal hull. He couldn't tell them from a Croesan Nightwing or a Hammerlane."
"As soon as we key the screen to drop it through, some bright lad in central will pick up the data. They're watching us too closely."
"We'll take that chance. People's lives are more important than O'Conners' regulations. Better send out a boarding party if you haven't heard for that long. See if anyone can get into them. Let me know what their trouble is."