"How about Plan Three?" Harrison asked.
"We'll get to that," Cercy said. "But I don't believe it's going to work."
"I don't either," Darrig agreed. "We don't even know the nature of his defense."
"That's the first order of business. Malley, take all our data so far, and get someone to feed it into the Derichman Analyzer. You know the stuff we want. What properties has X, if X can do thus and thus?"
"Right," Malley said. He left, muttering something about the ascendancy of the physical sciences.
"Harrison," Cercy asked, "is Plan Three set up?"
"Sure."
"Give it a try."
While Harrison was making his last adjustments, Cercy watched Darrig. The plump little physicist was staring thoughtfully into space, muttering to himself. Cercy hoped he would come up with something. He was expecting great things of Darrig.
Knowing the impossibility of working with great numbers of people, Cercy had picked his staff with care. Quality was what he wanted.
With that in mind, he had chosen Harrison first. The stocky, sour-faced engineer had a reputation for being able to build anything, given half an idea of how it worked.
Cercy had selected Malley, the psychiatrist, because he wasn't sure that killing the Ambassador was going to be a purely physical problem.
Darrig was a mathematical physicist, but his restless, curious mind had come up with some interesting theories in other fields. He was the only one of the four who was really interested in the Ambassador as an intellectual problem.
"He's like Metal Old Man," Darrig said finally.
"What's that?"
"Haven't you ever heard the story of Metal Old Man? Well, he was a monster covered with black metal armor. He was met by Monster-Slayer, an Apache culture hero. Monster-Slayer, after many attempts, finally killed Metal Old Man."
"How did he do it?"
"Shot him in the armpit. He didn't have any armor there."
"Fine," Cercy grinned. "Ask our Ambassador to raise his arm."
"All set!" Harrison called.
"Fine. Go."
In the Ambassador's room, an invisible spray of gamma rays silently began to flood the room with deadly radiation.
But there was no Ambassador to receive them.
"That's enough," Cercy said, after a while. "That would kill a herd of elephants."
But the Ambassador stayed invisible for five hours, until some of the radioactivity had abated. Then he appeared again.
"I'm still waiting for that typewriter," he said.
"Here's the Analyzer's report." Malley handed Cercy a sheaf of papers. "This is the final formulation, boiled down."
Cercy read it aloud: "The simplest defense against any and all weapons, is to become each particular weapon."
"Great," Harrison said. "What does it mean?"
"It means," Darrig explained, "that when we attack the Ambassador with fire, he turns into fire. Shoot at him, and he turns into a bullet—until the menace is gone, and then he changes back again." He took the papers out of Cercy's hand and riffled through them.
"Hmm. Wonder if there's any historical parallel? Don't suppose so." He raised his head. "Although this isn't conclusive, it seems logical enough. Any other defense would involve recognition of the weapon first, then an appraisal, then a countermove predicated on the potentialities of the weapon. The Ambassador's defense would be a lot faster and safer. He wouldn't have to recognize the weapon. I suppose his body simply identifies, in some way, with the menace at hand."
"Did the Analyzer say there was any way of breaking this defense?" Cercy asked.
"The Analyzer stated definitely that there was no way, if the premise were true," Malley answered gloomily.
"We can discard that judgment," Darrig said. "The machine is limited."
"But we still haven't got any way of stopping him," Malley pointed out. "And he's still broadcasting that beam."
Cercy thought for a moment. "Call in every expert you can find. We're going to throw the book at the Ambassador. I know," he said, looking at Darrig's dubious expression, "but we have to try."
"During the next few days, every combination and permutation of death was thrown at the Ambassador. He was showered with weapons, ranging from Stone-Age axes to modern high-powered rifles, peppered with hand grenades, drowned in acid, suffocated in poison gas.
He kept shrugging his shoulders philosophically, and continued to work on the new typewriter they had given him.
Bacteria was piped in, first the known germ diseases, then mutated species.
The diplomat didn't even sneeze.
He was showered with electricity, radiation, wooden weapons, iron weapons, copper weapons, brass weapons, uranium weapons—anything and everything, just to cover all possibilities.
He didn't suffer a scratch, but his room looked as though a bar-room brawl had been going on in it continually for fifty years.
Malley was working on an idea of his own, as was Darrig. The physicist interrupted himself long enough to remind Cercy of the Baldur myth. Baldur had been showered with every kind of weapon and remained unscathed, because everything on Earth had promised to love him. Everything, except the mistletoe. When a little twig of it was shot at him, he died.
Cercy turned away impatiently, but had an order of mistletoe sent up, just in case.
It was, at least, no less effective than the explosive shells or the bow and arrow. It did nothing except lend an oddly festive air to the battered room.
After a week of this, they moved the unprotesting Ambassador into a newer, bigger, stronger death cell. They were unable to venture into his old one because of the radioactivity and micro-organisms.
The Ambassador went back to work at his typewriter. All his previous attempts had been burned, torn or eaten away.
"Let's go talk to him," Darrig suggested, after another day had passed. Cercy agreed. For the moment, they were out of ideas.
"Come right in, gentlemen," the Ambassador said, so cheerfully that Cercy felt sick. "I'm sorry I can't offer you anything. Through an oversight, I haven't been given any food or water for about ten days. Not that it matters, of course."
"Glad to hear it," Cercy said. The Ambassador hardly looked as if he had been facing all the violence Earth had to offer. On the contrary, Cercy and his men looked as though they had been under bombardment.
"You've got quite a defense there," Malley said conversationally.
"Glad you like it."
"Would you mind telling us how it works?" Darrig asked innocently.
"Don't you know?"
"We think so. You become what is attacking you. Is that right?"
"Certainly," the Ambassador said. "You see, I have no secrets from you."
"Is there anything we can give you," Cercy asked, "to get you to turn off that signal?"
"A bribe?"
"Sure," Cercy said. "Anything you—?"
"Nothing," the Ambassador replied.
"Look, be reasonable," Harrison said. "You don't want to cause a war, do you? Earth is united now. We're arming—"
"With what?"
"Atom bombs," Malley answered him. "Hydrogen bombs. We're—"
"Drop one on me," the Ambassador said. "It wouldn't kill me. What makes you think it will have any effect on my people?"
The four men were silent. Somehow, they hadn't thought of that.
"A people's ability to make war," the Ambassador stated, "is a measure of the status of their civilization. Stage one is the use of simple physical extensions. Stage two is control at the molecular level. You are on the threshold of stage three, although still far from mastery of atomic and subatomic forces." He smiled ingratiatingly. "My people are reaching the limits of stage five."