Diplomatic Immunity.

by Robert Sheckley.

_He said he wasn't immortal--but nothing could kill him.

Still, if the Earth was to live as a free world, he had to die._

"Come right in, gentlemen," the Amba.s.sador waved them into the very special suite the State Department had given him. "Please be seated."

Colonel Cercy accepted a chair, trying to size up the individual who had all Washington chewing its fingernails. The Amba.s.sador hardly looked like a menace. He was of medium height and slight build, dressed in a conservative brown tweed suit that the State Department had given him. His face was intelligent, finely molded and aloof.

_As human as a human_, Cercy thought, studying the alien with bleak, impersonal eyes.

"How may I serve you?" the Amba.s.sador asked, smiling.

"The President has put me in charge of your case," Cercy said. "I've studied Professor Darrig's reports--" he nodded at the scientist beside him--"but I'd like to hear the whole thing for myself."

"Of course," the alien said, lighting a cigarette. He seemed genuinely pleased to be asked; which was interesting, Cercy thought. In the week since he had landed, every important scientist in the country had been at him.

_But in a pinch they call the Army_, Cercy reminded himself. He settled back in his chair, both hands jammed carelessly in his pockets. His right hand was resting on the b.u.t.t of a .45, the safety off.

"I have come," the alien said, "as an amba.s.sador-at-large, representing an empire that stretches half-way across the Galaxy. I wish to extend the welcome of my people and to invite you to join our organization."

"I see," Cercy replied. "Some of the scientists got the impression that partic.i.p.ation was compulsory."

"You will join," the Amba.s.sador said, blowing smoke through his nostrils.

Cercy could see Darrig stiffen in his chair and bite his lip. Cercy moved the automatic to a position where he could draw it easily. "How did you find us?" he asked.

"We amba.s.sadors-at-large are each a.s.signed an unexplored section of s.p.a.ce," the alien said. "We examine each star-system in that region for planets, and each planet for intelligent life. Intelligent life is rare in the Galaxy, you know."

Cercy nodded, although he hadn't been aware of the fact.

"When we find such a planet, we land, as I did, and prepare the inhabitants for their part in our organization."

"How will your people know that you have found intelligent life?"

Cercy asked.

"There is a sending mechanism that is part of our structure," the Amba.s.sador answered. "It is triggered when we reach an inhabited planet. This signal is beamed continually into s.p.a.ce, to an effective range of several thousand light-years. Follow-up crews are continually sweeping through the limits of the reception area of each Amba.s.sador, listening for such messages. Detecting one, a colonizing team follows it to the planet."

He tapped his cigarette delicately on the edge of an ash tray. "This method has definite advantages over sending combined colonization and exploration teams obviously. It avoids the necessity of equipping large forces for what may be decades of searching."

"Sure." Cercy's face was expressionless. "Would you tell me more about this message?"

"There isn't much more you need know. The beam is not detectable by your methods and, therefore, cannot be jammed. The message continues as long as I am alive."

Darrig drew in his breath sharply, glancing at Cercy.

"If you stopped broadcasting," Cercy said casually, "our planet would never be found."

"Not until this section of s.p.a.ce was resurveyed," the diplomat agreed.

"Very well. As a duly appointed representative of the President of the United States, I ask you to stop transmitting. We don't choose to become part of your empire."

"I'm sorry," the Amba.s.sador said. He shrugged his shoulders easily.

Cercy wondered how many times he had played this scene on how many other planets.

"There's really nothing I can do." He stood up.

"Then you won't stop?"

"I can't. I have no control over the sending, once it's activated."

The diplomat turned and walked to the window. "However, I have prepared a philosophy for you. It is my duty, as your Amba.s.sador, to ease the shock of transition as much as possible. This philosophy will make it instantly apparent that--"

As the Amba.s.sador reached the window, Cercy's gun was out of his pocket and roaring. He squeezed six rounds in almost a single explosion, aiming at the Amba.s.sador's head and back. Then an uncontrollable shudder ran through him.

The Amba.s.sador was no longer there!

Cercy and Darrig stared at each other. Darrig muttered something about ghosts. Then, just as suddenly, the Amba.s.sador was back.

"You didn't think," he said, "that it would be as easy as all that, did you? We Amba.s.sadors have, necessarily, a certain diplomatic immunity." He fingered one of the bullet holes in the wall. "In case you don't understand, let me put it this way. It is not in your power to kill me. You couldn't even understand the nature of my defense."

He looked at them, and in that moment Cercy felt the Amba.s.sador's complete alienness.

"Good day, gentlemen," he said.

Darrig and Cercy walked silently back to the control room. Neither had really expected that the Amba.s.sador would be killed so easily, but it had still been a shock when the slugs had failed.

"I suppose you saw it all, Malley?" Cercy asked, when he reached the control room.

The thin, balding psychiatrist nodded sadly. "Got it on film, too."

"I wonder what his philosophy is," Darrig mused, half to himself.

"It was illogical to expect it would work. No race would send an amba.s.sador with a message like that and expect him to live through it.

Unless--"

"Unless what?"