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Feeling extremely foolish, the acting representative of Homo sapiens watched his First Contact stride away across the Raman plain, totally indifferent to his presence. He had seldom been so humiliated in his life. Then his sense of humor came to the rescue. After all, it was no great matter to have been ignored by an animated garbage truck. It would have been worse if it had greeted him as a long-lost brother.
Yes, it made sense, and was so absurdly simple that it would take a genius to think of it. And, perhaps, someone who did not expect to do it himself.
It was a good plan—and it failed completely.
The claims of science had a lower priority than those of space diplomacy. In fact there was no need to bring in such elevated considerations; it was merely a matter of good manners. They were all visitors here, and had never even asked permission to come inside.
You all know the directives on this subject.” That was true enough; it was part of their training. Yet perhaps none of them had ever really believed that the long-theorized “physical contact with intelligent aliens” would occur in their lifetimes—still less that they would experience it themselves. Training was one thing, reality another, and no one could be sure that the ancient human instincts of self-preservation would not take over in an emergency. Yet it was essential to give every entity they encountered in Rama the benefit of the doubt, up to the last possible minute—and even beyond.
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“This is the termite colony. Like Rama, it is an artificial world with a controlled environment. Like Rama, its functioning depends upon a whole series of specialized biological machines: workers, builders, farmers—warriors. And although we do not know if Rama has a queen, I suggest that the island known as New York serves a similar function.
“It’s the age-old conflict between the forces of good and the forces of evil. And there are times when men have to take sides in such a conflict.”
“The human race has to live with its conscience. Whatever the Hermians argue, survival is not everything.”
“Here it is, anyway. They think we’re Ramans. They can’t tell the difference between one oxy-eater and another.” “I don’t believe they’re that stupid.” “It’s not a matter of stupidity. They’ve been programmed for their particular jobs, and we simply don’t come into their frame of reference.”
He was completely baffled, and so he followed a piece of useful advice he had heard long ago: “When in doubt, say nothing and move on.”
Even though they were weeks from home, the end-of-mission “orbital orgy” would be in full swing.
