Sky Marshall Na'rech watched as the Guardian of Lesser
Species approached. His sneer was as obvious to the Guardian as his
technically legal victory was.
"Greetings, Guardian," the Marshall said.
"I trust you find no flaws in my operation."
"Only in its intent," the Guardian answered.
"You set out for minimal compliance, through obscure warnings. And
you have achieved that goal."
"Obscure warnings?" Na'rech asked, feigning
surprise. "I downed a flight of the dominant tribe's naval bombers.
They even had time to report that my ships looked like something from another
world. I allowed a space probe to see a planetary ring system disturbed
by maneuvering jets, and the following probe to see the rings in a normal
state. I allowed another space probe to see a troop transport, and
broadcast its image, before we destroyed it. I orbited a carrier
around the world's moon, until even an amateur astronomer reported seeing
it. All these signs were duly reported to the public at large, over
a period in excess of half a native's average life span. I have made
more warnings than required by law. Now it is time to prepare the
world for colonization."
The Guardian grimaced. "I have no legal
right to stop your invasion. But I will insist on rarely exercised
restrictions in this case, just as you have used rarely exercised rights."
The Guardian paused in thought. "Your campaigns generally have begun
with two orbital periods of tactical reconnaissance. So you will
begin with two orbital periods of tactical reconnaissance."
"But there is no need!" Na'rech objected.
"With their televised travel programs, they do most of the job for us!"
"Yet I require it," the Guardian said.
"If you wish, you may appeal to higher authority."
The Guardian straightened into the ritual
position of one who rightly gives orders. "All flights will be made
with all navigation lights lit, especially those in the bandwidth of native
eyesight. You will also provide me with advance notice of all reconnaissance
missions. This notice will be at least one rotational period in advance."
Na'rech snarled and clawed the air in a ritual
sign of disapproval. "Why do you force this on me?"
The Guardian looked bleak. "In all the
primitive cultures we have discovered, this one is the most like ours.
They are wealthy enough to be comfortable, yet they hunger for more.
Their dominant political group tries to use its power to enforce justice,
and is efficient enough that most smaller political groups barely pretend
to train their armed forces."
"Yet they fight bitter cultural wars over
language, religion, and still more obscure differences."
"And so do we!" snapped the Guardian.
"Remember the Chay-Lieu incursion? You should; you wear the victory
banner. And how else do you describe your campaigns to dominate primitive
outside cultures?"
The Guardian shifted as he crouched in the
shadows. He had taken the form of the world's dominant species, and
it was uncomfortable. Not only was he double his proper height, but
the balance was all wrong.
The coldfire flares exploded, while a heavy
assault troopship was within detection range. He stood and ran toward
the flames as the ship descended, a native optical recorder running as
he approached.
I started too far away, he thought
as he momentarily lost sight of the troopship. The flames were a
marker signal used by downed invaders, a technology not presently known
to this world's natives. But the principle was simple enough for
a native scientist to figure out.
The flames were extinguished before the Guardian
was close enough for the recorder to record the troops. And recording
the invaders' alien shape was the entire reason for this incident.
The Guardian stopped, out of breath, as the ship launched.
The Guardian returned to his van and drove
to the cheap motel he was using. There, he made copies of his videotape.
His already-prepared cover letter told just enough truth to spark curiosity,
mixed with enough scandalous lies to catch a reporter's attention.
Of course, that was assuming he properly understood native psychology.
. .
He paused in thought. He had really
wanted to capture the troops' eldritch shape. And there was another
way he could do it. He took a still picture camera, fastened it to
a tripod, and reverted to his natural form.
The reversion process took three long, agonizing
hours. It was a sign of how bad a neighborhood it was that his cries
and moans attracted no attention. But, after an eternity of pain,
the Guardian had reverted to his native form.
The Guardian stumbled in front of the camera,
set the timer, and stepped back. When the camera snapped, he stumbled
forward, and set it for another picture. He continued the process
until he had finished the roll. Then he had to shift his shape back
to the native he had registered as before he could go to sleep.
The next day, the Guardian had several copies
of all the photos made at a quick-process photo shop. He chose the
best pictures of a bad lot -- he'd been more out of it than he thought
when he took those pictures -- and added them to his packages.
One package he mailed to NASA's SETI office.
Another went to the Intelligence branch of the US Air Force Space Command.
Several others went to various media sources that might be interested.
Two months later, the Guardian finally heard
about one of his packages. He was scanning television, when
he recognized his videotape. He stopped and watched the show in growing
incredulity. The incomplete videotape was taken as important evidence,
while his cover letter and pictures were dismissed as misleading or outright
lies.
The Guardian was wearing his native form.
He ran a long, four-fingered hand over his bald, gray head. He looked
in the mirror and blinked his huge, obsidian eyes. "I guess it'll
take an invasion to make these people believe in bug-eyed monsters!" he
exclaimed.
