Newspapers and radios blared forth the joyous news of the reprieve. There were celebrations throughout the world, the like of which had not been seen since VJ day. Whistles blew and people danced in the streets. When the day arrived for the aliens to send their message, a million people jammed the mall in front of the U.N. building. The transmitter’s radar van had been parked in front of a reviewing stand that held dozens of internationally famous men. The aliens themselves were grouped around the transmitter’s control rack that was mounted at the rear of the truck. They were being photographed by forests of cameras and televised to millions of people as they prepared to contact their world. Amika, the radio operator, checked the transmitter thoroughly.
“Not a bad job,” he reported to the captain. “It should work fine. What do you want me to send, sir?”
The captain handed him a slip of paper. Amika read it and reached for the transmitter key.
As Amika tapped out the interstellar code, the first officer turned to the captain and asked: “Do you think they’ll come for us, sir?”
“I’m certain of it,” the captain reassured him. “Once they pick up that code the Guard ships will be here as fast as their overdrives will allow.”
The first officer looked out at the whirring cameras and the pushing crowds.
“Will we ever return, sir?”
The captain turned his head Lo the crowd. “Oh, I don’t know. I gave them a two-year reprieve. It might be fun, at that, to come back and see how our little experiment in world nationalization worked out. At any rate, I’m certain that our Trade Commission will be interested in that nullifier thing of theirs. It looks as if it might work at that.”
Twenty light-years across the galaxy an alien substation operator stretched his tentacles in weariness as he sat before his quiet equipment. Suddenly a red light flashed as a multiple light speed beam flashed an S.O.S. into the receiver. A recorder started immediately and an audio converter changed the signals into words.
“Disabled ship. Disabled ship,” the speaker blared. The operator swiveled in his chair and listened intently. “This is Flight 425 out of Central calling. I repeat, Flight 425 out of Central. Requesting immediate assistance. Disabled in a fuel explosion at 0745 T.U. on the 13th day of Jeleval. Drifted off course into the general area of Sector III. Suffered seventy per cent casualties in the explosion and bailed out. Have been stranded among an aberrated civilization for several time-periods. Were forced to fabricate a story about a Galactic Empire and an Atomic Test in order to trick them into building a transmitter for us. This is the first opportunity we have had to communicate. Will leave transmitter keyed in to act as homing beam for you. Please send aid immediately. The chow here is awful.