“Yes, sir,” said Harcraft, “you are looking at the representatives of mankind’s only sibling. The noble Ankorbades.” Then he recited in a singsong voice:
“A simple race the Ankorbades
They wear no clothes and live in caves
But out in space they do in minutes
What our ships do at speeds infinite.”
“Cultural paranoia,” added Harcraft.
“Huh?”
“I mean just what I said. You and a million others recite that ditty, or variations of it every day of the week. It all adds up to the fact that the world is full of small-egged animals who for ten years have done nothing but just scream that we’re about to be attacked by the savage Ankorbades.”
“Tch, tch,” said Banner, “treason, my lieutenant, treason. Of you I had expected at least a show of chauvinism.”
“Stop tch-tching me,” Harcraft said irritably. “You’ve known how I felt about this mess for a long time.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Banner, yawning, “ever since you took that micro-course in culturology you have insights into the situation denied to the rest of the race.”
“Anyway,” Harcraft said, making a small adjustment on the screen, “you and countless other atavisms are reacting in a very predictable way. Since you can’t reconcile the naked Ankorbades and their superior technology, and since they are alien to point of showing no interest whatsoever in our elaborate art, institutions, rituals—”
“And since,” piped up Arnold, startling both men, “the human unconscious can’t help but equate nakedness with savagery, we have armed our mighty planet to the teeth, convinced that Armageddon is around the corner.”