Determined to prove to Mankind that pacifism was a viable alternative to a bitter series of wars that
could end only in the extermination of the race, he went over the heads of his constituency and approached the aliens directly.
If he could arrange a conference between all the races of the galaxy, Man included, would they be willing to participate?
The aliens were in the driver's seat, and they knew it. Only if certain conditions were met, they answered, would they consent to such a meeting. The conditions?
All delegates would speak with T-packs. Not modified Terran T-packs, but Galactic ones. Thome agreed.
The meeting would be held on Doradus IV, symbolic of the first worldwide population that Man had wiped out through sheer carelessness, rather than malice. Thome agreed.
The delegation of Men must be empowered to speak for the entire race. They'd had enough experience in signing agreements with one representative of the race and then having other Men deny that anyone had spoken for their specific interest groups. Thome agreed.
The race of Man must totally disarm prior to the meeting. Thome explained, time and again, that he did not have the influence or the power to make his race lay down its arms. That, after all, was one of the hoped-for goals of the meeting. However, he would guarantee that no Man attending the conference would bear arms. After considerable procrastination, the aliens agreed. There were, including Man, 13,042 intelligent races in the galaxy. Some of these, such as the insectoids of Procyon II, who had no interest in the affairs of other races, or the ichthyoids of Gamma Leporis IV, who bore Man no ill will, were not invited to the conference. But of the 11,039 races invited to send delegations, 9,844 had responded favorably. Even such far-flung and exotic beings as the Vasorites, who spent their entire lives following their small red sun over the horizon on incredibly long, untiring legs, agreed to attend. In fact, Thome had more trouble getting Man to agree to the meeting than any of the aliens. After all, Men were the reason for the meeting. They would be expected to disarm, to make territorial concessions, to pay economic tributes, and they weren't happy about it. Thome kept hitting away at the only alternative—racial death—and at long last the leaders of the loosely-knit Interstellar Union of Man, a conservative government that ruled more by consent than any effective manifestation of real political power, agreed.
There had been a lot of stipulations. The aliens must be informed that Man's presence should not be
construed as any form of weakness or surrender, but merely a willingness to discuss the situation across a
conference table instead of a battlefield. The aliens must realize that paltry as Man's armaments were, the race was in no way willing to leave itself totally defenseless. The aliens must understand that the use of a Galactic T-pack was only a temporary affectation, not a permanent reversal of long-standing human policy. The aliens must understand this, the aliens must do that, the aliens must yield on such-and-such a point...
Thome smoothed over as many points of disagreement as he could, then returned to the aliens with those demands which were not negotiable. The aliens gave in on a number of points, and he finally persuaded Man to yield on the remainder.
It had taken almost three years to set up the conference, years during which Man had lost seven more worlds, years during which Thome despaired almost daily of bringing the project to fruition, but at last the appointed moment had arrived. He looked around, smiling at the humanoid delegation from Emra, nodding to a passing Torqual, bowing low to a crystalline being from far Atria. “It's going to work!” he whispered excitedly to his companion. “I can feel it in my bones. Look at them, Lipas. They're not out for blood. They want an end to the killing as much as we do.” Lipas surveyed the room. “It's possible,” he admitted. “I shook hands with one of those Leptimus V creatures, and it didn't even flinch. A couple of years ago it would have raced off to its equivalent of a bathroom to wash away the taint of a Man's touch.” A three-legged Pnathian lumbered over to Thome, an unbelievably complex T-pack arrangement attached to its helmet.
“I have been here for almost half a day,” it said. “When will the conference begin?” “There are almost eighty races that have not yet arrived,” said Thome. “Once all are in attendance we shall proceed with our business, Ambassador.” “And your delegation?” asked the Pnathian. “Is it here yet?” “No,” said Thome. “It is one of the delegations we are waiting for.” The Pnathian stared at him for a moment, then walked off to join one of the Lodinites. In another two hours all but fourteen races had arrived, and Lerollion of Canphor VII, the leader of the Canphor Twins, approached Thome.
“Where is your delegation?” he said, and even the T-pack seemed to resonate with anger. “They'll be here,” said Thome. “They are coming from almost half a galaxy away. I don't think being a few hours late constitutes a breach of trust.” “Nonetheless, we cannot delay the conference any longer,” said Lerollion. “Have you any reason why we should not begin without your delegation?” “Absolutely,” said Thome. “My delegation is the whole reason we're meeting here today.” “Just the same,” said Lerollion, “it is time to begin.”
The Canphorite walked to the rostrum and, turning on the amplifier, requested the delegations to take
their seats.
“Delegates,” he said, “I, Lerollion of Canphor VII, now declare this conference to be in order. The clerk will read the roll.
The clerk, a squat little being from Robel, began calling out the names of the worlds, from hot, dusty Aldebaran II to Zeta Piscium IX. Only six delegations were absent. “I had written an introductory speech,” said Lerollion, “a speech of friendship and conciliation. With no offense to these assembled delegates, the speech was not written on your behalf, for you are all my friends, as well you know. It was written for one particular race of beings"—here he paused long enough to cast a hostile look at Thome—"a race from which I perhaps expected too much.” “And yet,” he continued, “if I am to be disappointed, the fault is undoubtedly my own, for nothing in that race's history has given me any indication that it would either seek, recognize, or appreciate the words I had prepared. It is a race of barbarians, a race that is being given one last chance to join our peaceful community of worlds. I do not know why, under the circumstances, this race was not the first delegation to arrive. I do not know why it has not arrived yet. But I do know what the inevitable result will be should this race offend us this one last time.” He paused. “I see that Thome of the race of Man is requesting the floor. It is given.”
The Canphorite sat down, and Thome walked up to the amplifier. “I am aware that the regrets and impatience Lerollion has expressed echo the sentiments of many of you,” he said. “This is understandable, and perfectly justified. The race of Man has indeed brought most of its current sorrows upon itself by its actions over several millennia of galactic rule and misrule. But it is for precisely that reason that this conference has been arranged. We come to you with new insights, new humility, new—”