Aftershocks

5

Everything Kassquit and Jonathan Yeager had done together on the starship-everything from mating to cleaning their teeth-was recorded. Ttomalss studied the video and audio records with great attention: how better to learn about the interactions between a civilized Tosevite and one of the wild Big Uglies from the surface of Tosev 3?

What he found distressed him in a number of ways. He had spent Kassquit’s entire lifetime shaping her as he thought she should go. When she was with him even now, she behaved as a civilized being ought to behave. But when she was with Jonathan Yeager…

When Kassquit was with Jonathan Yeager, she behaved much as a wild Big Ugly did. She learned to imitate him far more quickly than she had learned to imitate Ttomalss-and she’d startled Ttomalss with how fast she’d learned to imitate him while she was a hatchling.

Also infuriating to the senior researcher was how quickly and accurately Jonathan Yeager could divine what was in Kassquit’s mind. Blood will tell, the male thought unhappily. That was not the conclusion he would have wanted as a culmination of his long-running experimental project.

He was so distressed about what he found, he called Felless to talk about it. “I greet you, Senior Researcher,” she said when she saw his image in the video screen. “I am glad to speak with you.”

“And I greet you, superior female.” Ttomalss wondered if his hearing diaphragms were working as they should. Felless only rarely admitted to being glad to speak with anyone, and most especially not with him.

A moment later, she explained why she was: “After so much time spent dealing with the Francais, it is good to talk shop with a member of my own species.”

“Ah,” Ttomalss said. “Yes, I can certainly understand that.”

“And why are you interested in speaking with me?” Felless asked.

“For your insights, of course,” Ttomalss answered, which was even more or less true. He told her of the disturbing data about Kassquit.

“Why does this surprise you?” she asked, sounding surprised herself. “A common law of psychological development states that hatchlings are more influenced by their peers than by the previous generation. This holds for the Race, it holds for the Rabotevs, and it holds for the Hallessi, too. Why should it not also hold for the Big Uglies?”

“I had assumed it would be different as a result of the prolonged parental care they receive, which makes them unlike the species-the other species, I should say-of the Empire,” Ttomalss replied. “I might also note that the leading Tosevite psychological theories stress the primacy of the relationship between parents and hatchlings.”

Felless’ mouth opened wide in hearty, unabashed laughter. “Why in the name of the Emperor do you take Tosevite psychological theories seriously?” she asked. “I have examined a few of them. For one thing, they strike me as preposterous. For another, they contradict one another in any number of ways, demonstrating that they cannot all be true and that, very likely, none of them is true.”

“I do understand that,” Ttomalss said stiffly. “I have been examining Tosevite psychological theories a good deal longer than you have, I might add. And one point where they are in unanimity is on the vital importance of this bond.”

“But it makes no logical sense!” Felless exclaimed. “Even in Tosevite terms, it makes no logical sense.”

“There I might well disagree with you, superior female,” Ttomalss said. “Some of the Big Uglies appear to have very persuasive arguments for the nurturing influence of parents upon hatchlings. Given their biological patterns, I have no trouble finding these arguments plausible.”

“Plausibility and truth hatch from different eggs,” Felless said, something Ttomalss could hardly deny. The female from the colonization fleet went on, “Consider, Senior Researcher. Where will even a Big Ugly end up spending most of his time? With his parents and their other hatchlings, or with his peers? With his peers, of course. Whom will he have to work harder to accommodate, his parents and their other hatchlings, or his peers? Again, his peers, of course. His parents and close kin are biologically programmed to be accommodating to him. If they were not, they probably could not stand him at all, Big Uglies being what they are. If, however, he acts as if he has his head up his cloaca among his peers, are they not likely to inform him of this in no uncertain terms? No male or female of the Race with whom I am familiar has ever composed songs of praise for the Tosevites’ kindness or gentle manners.”

The pungent irony there forced a laugh from Ttomalss, who also could hardly deny Felless’ words held some truth. “No, no songs of praise,” he agreed, laughing still. And, after some thought, he continued, “That may well be a cogent analysis, superior female. It may indeed. As always, experimental data would be desirable, but the superstructure of your thought certainly appears logical.”

“For which I thank you,” Felless replied. She sounded more cordial toward him than she had for some time. On the other fork of the tongue, he hadn’t praised her much lately, either. She was a female who took praise seriously.

In musing tones, Ttomalss said, “You might provoke some interesting responses if you were to publish that thesis in a Tosevite psychological journal.”

“For which I do not thank you.” Felless used an emphatic cough. “I have enough difficulties with Big Uglies as is to want to avoid more, not to provoke them.”

“Very well.” Ttomalss shrugged. “I thought you might find it amusing to watch the allegedly learned Tosevites banding together to destroy you with overheated rhetoric.”

“Again, no,” Felless said. “The trouble with Big Uglies is, they might not stop with overheated rhetoric. If I upset them badly enough, they might try to destroy me with explosives. Is it not a truth that the followers of the male called Khomeini still raise a rebellion against us despite his capture and imprisonment?”

“Yes, that is a truth,” Ttomalss admitted. “But they remain imprisoned in the grip of superstition. Contributors to psychological journals, even Tosevite psychological journals, have a more rational outlook.”

“I do not care to test this experimentally,” Felless said. “And here is my suggestion for you, Senior Researcher: since Kassquit will be influenced by her peers, you would do well to persuade her that her true peers are males and females of the Race, not the barbaric Big Uglies on the surface of Tosev 3. And now, if you will excuse me…” She disappeared from the video screen.

Even so, Ttomalss protested, “But I have always done my best to persuade her of that.” And it had worked. It still worked, to a point. Ttomalss couldn’t imagine Kassquit betraying the Race in any truly important matter. But the sexual bond she’d so quickly established with Jonathan Yeager formed the basis of a social intimacy with him different from the sort she’d established with the Race.

I wonder if I ought to arrange a new sexual partner for her, he thought. That might lessen her despondence over the departure of the wild Big Ugly. But it might also present new and more serious problems. Solving one difficulty with Tosevites all too often did produce another worse one. The whole world of Tosev 3 was a large, unexpected difficulty, or rather a multitude of them.

He dictated a note to himself so he would not forget the possibility, then returned to analyzing the recordings of Kassquit’s conversations with Jonathan Yeager. At one point, she’d asked him, “Would you not like to spend all your time living and working among the Race?” Ttomalss suspected she meant, Would you not like to spend all your time staying with me?

“If I could do it in the service of my not-empire, then maybe,” the wild Tosevite male had answered. “But I would like to have some of my species around for the sake of company. We are too different from the Race to be very comfortable with its members all the time.”

Was that U.S. propaganda, countering the Race’s propaganda that formed the only indoctrination Kassquit had had till Jonathan Yeager’s arrival? Or was it simply his view of where the truth lay? If so, was he right?

Ttomalss feared he was. No wild Rabotev or Hallessi would ever have said such a thing. The other two species in the Empire had been on the same road as the Race; they just hadn’t gone so far along it when the conquest fleets got to their planets. The Big Uglies had been going in another direction altogether when the Race arrived.

That so many of them were still going in a different direction told how strong their impetus had been. And yet the direction was not so different as it had been before the conquest fleet came; it was the resultant of their former course and that which the Race tried to impose on them. Which component of the vector would prove stronger in the end remained to be seen.

The telephone hissed for attention. “Senior Researcher Ttomalss speaking,” Ttomalss said. “I greet you.”

“I greet you, superior sir.” Kassquit’s image appeared in the screen.

“Hello, Kassquit.” Ttomalss did his best to disguise his concern. “How may I help you?” How was he supposed to analyze her behavior if she kept subjecting him to it?

“I do not know. I doubt anyone knows.”

“If you do not know how I can help you, why did you call me?” Ttomalss asked in some irritation. He didn’t expect a rational answer. He’d had several similar conversations with Kassquit since Jonathan Yeager departed for the surface of Tosev 3.

“I am sorry, superior sir,” she said, something he’d heard a great many times before. “But I have no one else with whom I might speak.”

That, unfortunately, was a truth. And it was a truth of Ttomalss’ own creation. He sighed. He recognized the obligation under which it placed him. “Very well,” he answered. “Say what you will.”

“I do not know what to say,” Kassquit wailed. “I feel as if my place in this society is not what I thought it was before I made the acquaintance of the wild Big Ugly.”

“That is not a truth.” Ttomalss appended an emphatic cough. “Your place here has not changed in the slightest.”

“Then I have changed, for I do not feel as if I fit that place any more,” Kassquit said.

“Ah.” That, for once, was something Ttomalss could get his teeth into. “Many males from the conquest fleet have similar feelings in trying to reintegrate with the more numerous members of the colonization fleet. Their time on Tosev 3 and their dealings with Tosevites have changed them so much, they no longer find the old ways of our society congenial. Something like this seems to have happened to you.”

“Yes!” Now his Tosevite ward used an emphatic cough of her own. “How is this syndrome cured?”

By all appearances, it wasn’t always curable. Ttomalss had no intention of admitting that. He said, “The chief anodyne is the passage of time.” He had also heard this was true of the aftermath of brief Tosevite sexual relationships, another point he carefully did not bring up.

Kassquit’s shoulders slumped. “I shall try to be patient, superior sir.”

“That is all you can do, I fear,” Ttomalss said. He would have to try to be patient, too.

After a brief tour of duty at Greifswald, Gorppet’s small unit had returned to the Deutsch center with the preposterous name of Peenemunde. The move made sense; the place was plainly the largest and most important center in the area. Or rather, it had been: it had taken a worse pounding than any he’d imagined, let alone any he’d seen. He and the males he commanded were constantly checking their radiation badges to make sure they were not picking up dangerous levels of radioactivity.

Despite the explosive-metal bombs that had fallen on the site, the wreckage remained impressive. Gorppet spoke to one of his troopers: “This was on its way to becoming a spaceport as large as any back on Home.”

“That would seem to be a truth, superior sir,” the male called Yarssev agreed.

“When we first came to Tosev 3, the Deutsche had not even begun launching rockets from this site,” Gorppet said.

Yarssev made the affirmative hand gesture. “That is also a truth, superior sir.”

“How long did the Race take to move from the first launch of a rocket to a spaceport?” Gorppet asked.

“I have no idea, superior sir,” Yarssev answered. “It has been a long time since they tried to make me learn history, and I have long since forgotten most of what they taught me.”

“So have I,” Gorppet said. “But this I will tell you: we did not go from rocket to spaceport in a fraction of an individual’s lifetime.”

“Well, of course not, superior sir,” Yarssev said. “If you ask me, there is something unnatural about the way the Big Uglies change so fast.”

“I would have a hard time arguing with you there, because I think that is also a truth,” Gorppet said. “And I will tell you something else: I think there is something unnatural about the way the Deutsche are surrendering their armaments.”

“Do you?” Yarssev gestured. The broad, low, damp plain was full of the implements of war: landcruisers, mechanized fighting vehicles, artillery pieces, rocket launchers, machine guns, stacked infantrymales’ weapons.

But Gorppet made the negative gesture. “Not enough. Remember what these Big Uglies threw at us in Poland? They had more than this-and better than this, too. They do not love us. They have no reason to love us. I think they are trying to hold out, to conceal, as much as they can.”

“What will you do, superior sir?” Yarssev asked.

And Gorppet had to hiss in dismay. That was an unfortunate question. He wished with every lobe of his liver that the trooper had not asked it. He answered, “There is not much I can do, you know. I am only a small-unit group leader. I have no tremendous authority, certainly not enough to compel the Deutsche to do anything. All I have is a lot of combat experience, and it tells me something is wrong here.”

Yarssev found another unfortunate question: “Have you given your views to the company commander?”

Gorppet let out another dismayed hiss. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. His opinion of the situation differs from mine.”

That was all he would say to Yarssev. The company commander was smugly convinced the Deutsche were obeying all treaty requirements. Gorppet hissed once more. Back in the days when he was an ordinary trooper, he’d seen that officers all too often didn’t want to listen to him. It wasn’t so much that they were smarter or more experienced than he was. But they had rank, and so they didn’t have to listen. He’d been sure things were different among officers, that they paid attention to their fellows if not to their inferiors. To his company commander, though, he remained an inferior.

Deutsch males moved among the weaponry they were turning over to the Race. Deutsch civilians were properly submissive to the Race. They knew their not-empire had taken a beating. These were not civilians. They wore the gray wrappings and steel helmets of soldiers. They also wore an almost palpable air of resentment and regret that the fighting had ended.

“Look at them.” Gorppet pointed with his tongue. “Do they have the look of males who will contentedly return to civilian life?”

“Does it matter if they are contented or not?” Yarssev asked in return. “So long as they are demobilized and have no weapons with which they can wage war against us, why should we care if they hate us?”

“Because, if they hate us, they will seek to hide and to regain weapons,” Gorppet answered patiently. “At the moment, they are merely submitting because they have no choice. I would sooner see them truly conquered.”

Yarssev didn’t argue with him any more. Of course not, Gorppet thought. I am an officer. He sees no point to arguing with officers, because he will not convince them even if he is right.

Gorppet laughed. When he’d been a trooper himself, most officers had looked like addled eggs to him, too. Now, though, he was sure he was right and Yarssev wrong. Perspective counted for a great deal.

Perspective… Gorppet made the affirmative hand gesture, although no one had asked him anything. Even if his company commander wasn’t interested in what he had to say, he could think of some males who might be. He found his top-ranking underofficer and told him not to let the Deutsche steal any troopers while he was gone, then went over to the tents marking brigade headquarters not far away. The brigade commander’s tent, of course, was bigger and more impressive than any of the others. Gorppet ignored it. The tent he had in mind was the least obtrusive one in the whole compound.

When he walked in, a male of a rank not much higher than his turned one eye turret away from a computer terminal and toward him. “Yes? What do you want?” the fellow asked, his tone implying that it had better be something interesting and important.

“Superior sir, does brigade Intelligence believe the Deutsche are in fact turning over all weapons required under the terms of their surrender?” Gorppet asked.

Now both the male’s eye turrets swung his way. “What makes you think they are not, Small-Unit Group Leader?” he asked sharply.

“What I see delivered here, superior sir,” Gorppet answered. “It does not seem to be materiel of the quality my unit faced when we fought the Deutsche in Poland. If it is not, where has that materiel gone?”

“Where has it gone?” the officer from Intelligence repeated. “The Deutsche say the Race destroyed most of it in combat. There is, without a doubt, some truth to that: would you not agree?”

“Certainly, superior sir,” Gorppet said. Then, brash as if he’d just had a big taste of ginger-which he hadn’t-he went on, “But would you not agree that it also gives the Deutsche a very handy excuse for hiding whatever they think they can get away with?”

“Give me your name.” The male from Intelligence rapped out the order. Liver in turmoil, Gorppet obeyed. How much trouble had he found for himself? The other male spoke into the computer, then to Gorppet again: “And your pay number?” Gorppet gave him that, too. He wondered if anything would be left of him by the time this male was through. But then, after a hiss of surprise, the fellow asked, “You are the male who captured the agitator Khomeini?”

“Yes, superior sir,” Gorppet admitted with what he hoped was becoming modesty.

“Have you spoken of this matter to your company commander?” the male from Intelligence asked.

“I have. He is of the opinion that the Deutsche are honoring their obligations,” Gorppet said.

“I am of the opinion that he is a fool,” the male from Intelligence said. “He could not see a sunrise if he were out in space.” He paused. “What made you come here, Small-Unit Group Leader, if your superior officer told you this matter that concerned you was unimportant?”

“What made me come here?” Gorppet echoed. “Superior sir, I did not like fighting the Deutsche once. You may believe me when I say I never want to have to fight them again.” He added an emphatic cough.

“No one wants to fight the Deutsche again-no one with sense,” the male said. “No one wants to fight any of the independent Tosevite not-empires again. The Reich caused us altogether too much damage. Another war would only be worse.”

“Truth!” Gorppet said with another emphatic cough.

“And you do not know everything the Deutsche are doing,” the other male said, “or rather, everything they are not doing. Their delivery of missile components and their surrender of poison gas have been well behind schedule. Their excuses, I might add, challenge credulity.”

“More blame on battle damage?” Gorppet asked.

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact. You have encountered similar claims?” the other male returned. Gorppet made the affirmative gesture. The other male eyed him appraisingly, then said, “Small-Unit Group Leader Gorppet, you show wit and initiative. Have you ever wondered if you were wasted as an infantrymale?”

“What do you mean, superior sir?” Gorppet asked.

“My name is Hozzanet,” the male from Intelligence said-a sign he was interested in Gorppet, sure enough. And he went on, “It might be possible to arrange a transfer to my service, if you are interested. Then you would be able to devote your full energies to tracking down Tosevite deceit.”

“That is tempting,” Gorppet admitted. “But I am not sure I would want to pursue it.” He did not think males from Intelligence would be encouraged to taste ginger. The reverse: he was sure they would be more closely monitored than ordinary infantrymales. And if they ever connected him with the ginger deal in South Africa that had involved males of the Race shooting at one another…

But if they ever connected him with that deal, he was in endless trouble no matter which service he belonged to. Still…

Hozzanet said, “Speaking off the record and hypothetically-I ask no questions, note-sticking your tongue in the ginger vial every once in a while would not disqualify you. If you are in the habit of doing things like feeding females ginger to get them to mate with you, you would be well advised not to consider such a position.”

“I… see,” Gorppet said slowly. “No, I am not in the habit of doing any such thing with females. I have mated with females who have tasted ginger, but such tasting has always been at their initiative.”

“I understand,” Hozzanet said. “Many males have done that here on Tosev 3, I among them. Whether we like it or not, the herb is changing our sexual patterns here, and will continue to do so. But that, at the moment, is a patch of scales shed from one’s back. I ask again: are you interested in serving in Intelligence?”

“I… may be, superior sir,” Gorppet said. “May I have a day to think on it?” Hozzanet made the affirmative gesture. Gorppet assumed the posture of respect and left the tent. He didn’t know what he’d expected on visiting brigade Intelligence, but he was sure he hadn’t expected an invitation to join it.

He was on his way back to his small group when a beffel trotted across the path in front of him. It turned one eye turret his way, gave him a friendly beep, and went on about its business.

“And hello to you, too, little fellow,” Gorppet said: a beffel was a welcome reminder of Home. He’d walked on for several paces before he paused to wonder what in the Emperor’s name a beffel was doing in the midst of the wreckage of the Greater German Reich.

DOWN BUT NOT OUT. Monique Dutourd had seen those signs so many times in Marseille, she was sick of them. She was, by late summer, sick of everything that had anything to do with her home town. She was sick of wreckage. She was sick of high prices everywhere she looked. She was especially sick of the tent city in which she had to live, and of being crammed into a tent with her brother and his lover.

French officials had promised things would be back to normal by now. She hadn’t believed the promises, and her skepticism was proving justified. The French hadn’t done anything but what the Germans told them to do for a solid generation. Now the Germans were gone. The French bureaucrats were on their own. With no one to tell them what to do, they didn’t do much of anything.

Monique picked her way through one of the market squares. Everybody who had peaches and apricots wanted an arm and a leg for them. She scowled. Shipping hadn’t come back the way the bureaucrats promised it would, either.

She almost ran into a Lizard. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” the creature said in hissing French. Monique wanted to laugh in its pointed, scaly face, but she didn’t. In a way, dealing with someone who couldn’t tell whether she was male or female was refreshing. She wished a good many of her crude countrymen had the same problem. She wished even more that Dieter Kuhn had had it.

For once, thinking of the SS Sturmbannfuhrer made her smile. Odds were, he’d died when the Lizards detonated their explosive-metal bomb on Marseille. If he hadn’t, he’d gone back to the Reich once France regained her freedom. Any which way, he was out of her life for good.

Thinking of his being out of her life for good made her a lot more cheerful than she would have been otherwise. That, in turn, made her more inclined to spend her money-well, actually, her brother’s money-on the fruit she wanted than she would have been otherwise.

Stringbag full of apricots in a wire basket behind her, she rode a battered bicycle back to the tent city. She’d had a far better machine before the bomb fell. Now she was glad to have any bicycle at all. The chain she’d used to secure it while she shopped weighed more than it did.

Commotion rocked the tent city when she reached it. A squad of hard-faced men in uniform were trundling a man and woman into a waiting motorcar. A crowd followed, yelling and cursing and throwing things. Monique couldn’t tell if they were pelting and reviling the captives or their captors.

“What’s going on?” she asked a man who was just standing there watching. With luck, that made him something close to neutral.

“Purification squad,” he answered, and jerked a thumb toward the captives. “They say those two were in bed with the Boches.”

“Oh, are they finally down here?” Monique said, and the man nodded. Now that France was free again, everyone who’d collaborated with the Nazis in any way was all at once fair game. Since the country had been under German rule for a quarter of a century, the new government could make an example of almost anyone it chose. No one said a word in protest, though. To complain was to appear unpatriotic, un-French, and probably pro-German: and therefore a fitting target for the purification squads.

They’d been in the news for weeks, fanning out through northern France to get rid of people described as “traitors to the Republic.” But everything reached Marseille more slowly than almost anywhere else. Till now, traitors here had been allowed to go on about their business like anybody else.

One of the men from the purification squad drew his pistol and fired it into the air. That gave the angry crowd pause. It let the men get the couple they’d captured into the automobile. Some of them got into it, too. Others piled into another motorcar behind it. Both cars drove away in a hurry.

“Are they really collaborators?” Monique asked.

“Ferdinand and Marie? Not that I ever heard of, and I’ve known them for years.” With a shrug, the man went on, “It could be that I did not know everything there is to know about what they did. But it could also be that someone who does not care for them for whatever reason-or for no reason at all-wrote out a denunciation.”

He said no more. Had he said any more, he might have got into trouble himself. Twenty-five years under the Nazis had taught wariness. They’d also taught Frenchmen, once lovers of freedom, to write denunciations against their neighbors for any reason or, as the man had said, for none.

“Do the purification squads ever let people go once they seize them?” Monique asked.

She got only another shrug by way of answer. The man with whom she’d been talking had evidently decided he’d said everything he was going to say. Monique shrugged, too. She couldn’t blame him for that. Under the Germans, talking to strangers had been a good way to land in trouble. Things didn’t look to have changed too much with the coming of the new regime.

With the motorcars gone, the crowd that had followed the purification squad out to them began to break up. Monique walked her bicycle to the tent she shared with Pierre and Lucie. She brought the bicycle into the tent, too. The folk of Marseille were notoriously light-fingered even at the best of times. In times like these, a bicycle left outside for the evening was an open invitation to theft.

“Hello,” Monique said as she ducked her way through the tent flap and came inside. She wondered if her brother would be dickering with Keffesh or some other Lizard, and would have to explain her presence. What infuriated her most was that he always sounded so apologetic.

But he and Lucie were alone in the tent this evening. Lucie was cooking something that smelled good on a little aluminum stove. Pointing to it, Monique asked, “Is that Wehrmacht issue?”

“Probably,” Lucie answered. She went on, “If it is, what difference does it make?”

“I don’t know for certain that it makes any difference,” Monique said. “But I wouldn’t let the purification squads know you’ve got a German stove.”

Patiently, Pierre Dutourd said, “Monique, probably seven-eighths of the people in this camp are cooking off Wehrmacht — issue stoves. There are a lot more of them in France than there are French-made stoves these days.”

“Without doubt, you have reason,” Monique said. “But will the purification squads care even the least little bit about reason?”

“Oh.” Pierre nodded. His jowls wobbled a little. Monique was glad she was slimmer than her older brother. “I don’t think we need to worry about the purification squads. We have enough friends among the Race to make it very likely indeed that they’ll leave us alone.”

“I hope you’re right.” Monique was willing to admit he might well be. The Lizards didn’t formally occupy France, as the Germans had. But the French were still too weak, still too unused to ruling themselves, to have an easy time standing on their own two feet. If they weren’t going to lean on the Nazis, the Race was their other logical prop.

That savory odor Monique smelled turned out to come from a rabbit stew full of wild mushrooms. With a tolerable rose, with some cheese and afterwards the fruit Monique had bought, it made a good supper.

Monique and Lucie washed the dishes in a bucket of water. Then Lucie and Pierre settled down, as they usually did of evenings, to hard-fought games of backgammon. Backgammon held no interest for Monique. She wished she had her reference books. She never had finished that article on the cult of Isis in Gallia Narbonensis. Her books, like the apartment from which her brother had spirited her, were bound to be radioactive dust these days.

She sighed, wondering if she would be able to find a teaching position in the new France. She was sick of living with her brother and Lucie. But the Reichsmarks the Race had given her not so long ago were worth hardly anything at the moment. New French francs were coming into circulation, and German money was shrinking in value almost as fast as it had after the First World War. It seemed most unfair.

Her brother didn’t think so. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph after winning the game. “If we’d been playing for money, I’d own you now, Lucie.”

For all practical purposes, he did own Lucie. Monique was almost angry enough to say so, which wouldn’t have made the tent a more enjoyable place to live. Pierre and Lucie started another game. That didn’t make the tent any more enjoyable, either, not as far as Monique was concerned. Her brother and his lover, unfortunately, had other ideas, and they outnumbered her. The tyranny of democracy, she thought.

She heard footsteps outside: not the soft, skittering strides of Lizards, but the solid steps of men, and men wearing heavy shoes at that. One of them said, “Here, this is the place,” right outside the tent flap. He spoke clear, Parisian French. That should have warned Monique what would happen next, but she was taken by surprise when the men with pistols burst into the tent. The man who’d spoken outside now spoke again: “Which of you women is Monique Dutourd?”

“I am,” Monique answered automatically. “What do you want with me?”

“You were a Nazi’s whore,” the man snapped. “France needs to be cleansed of the likes of you. Come along, or you’ll be sorry.” He gestured with his pistol.

“Now see here, my friends,” Pierre Dutourd said, making what sounded to Monique like a dangerously unwarranted assumption. “You are making a mistake. If you will but wait a moment-”

“Shut up, you fat tub of goo,” the leader of the purification squad said coldly. “I tell you this only once. After that…” Now the muzzle of the pistol pointed right at the bridge of Pierre’s nose. Monique’s brother sat silent as a stone. “Good,” the other man said. “Come along with me, whore.”

“I’m not a whore,” Monique insisted, trying to fight down a nasty stab of fear. How could she make these hard-eyed purifiers understand? How could she make them believe?

“You are to be interrogated,” their leader said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “After the interrogation, your punishment will be set.” He sounded as if there weren’t the slightest doubt she would be punished. In his mind, there probably wasn’t.

“The Nazis interrogated me, too, at the Palais de Justice,” Monique said. “I hope you will be gentler than they were.” Terror at the thought of another such interrogation was what had made her let Dieter Kuhn do what he wanted with her.

But the leader of the purification squad said, “We shall do everything that is necessary.” The fire of righteousness burned in his eyes, as it had burned in the eyes of the Germans who’d questioned and tormented her.

She’d had no choice with the Germans. She had no choice now. With such dignity as she could muster, she said, “Be it noted that I come with you under protest.”

“Be it noted that no one cares,” the zealot answered. “Get moving.” Under the cover of his comrades’ automatics, Monique left the tent and stepped out into the warm night. Somewhere close by, a cricket chirped. You can afford to make noise, Monique thought bitterly. No one is going to interrogate you. The purification squad hustled her through the camp toward a waiting motorcar.

As she had on her previous tour of duty in Marseille, Felless found that she liked the place better than Nuremberg. Since she’d hated Nuremberg with a deep and abiding loathing, that wasn’t saying much, but it was something. The weather here, though not up to the standards of Home or even of the new town in the Arabian Peninsula where she’d been a refugee, was certainly an improvement on Nuremberg’s. At this season of the year, it was more than tolerable.

She soon discovered she liked Marseille better now than she had on her first visit, too, even though the Race’s explosive-metal bomb had torn out its liver. Then the Deutsche had been in charge of the city, and their arrogance, their automatic assumption that they were not just equal but superior to the Race, had gone a long way toward making her despise them and the place both.

The Francais, now, the Francais were easier to deal with. Technically, this subregion called France still wasn’t part of the territory the Race ruled from Cairo. It functioned as an independent not-empire. But the Francais Big Uglies listened to what the Race had to say to them. The alternative was listening to the Deutsche, and the Francais had done that for too many years to want to do it any more.

Felless did wish Ambassador Veffani wouldn’t keep turning an eye turret her way, but she couldn’t do anything about that. “I greet you, superior sir,” she said, polite as always when he telephoned.

“And I greet you, Senior Researcher,” Veffani said, sounding more friendly than he usually did. “I seek your opinion in an area that falls within your field of professional expertise.”

“Go ahead, superior sir.” Felless vastly preferred a technical question to his hectoring her over her ginger habit, the reason he usually called.

“I shall,” he said. “Here is my question: do you believe that, by leaving Tosevite not-empires formally independent but in fact dependent on the Race, we can lay the foundations for fully incorporating them into the Empire?”

It was an interesting question. Felless had no doubt she was far from the only one contemplating it. At last, she said, “On the two other planets the Race conquered, half measures were unnecessary. Here, they may well be expedient. We have the chance to experiment, both with France and with the Reich.”

“Ruling Big Uglies should not be a matter for experiment.” Veffani laughed a wry laugh. “Too often, though, it is.”

“You would know better than I, superior sir.” Felless didn’t like flattering him, especially not in view of all the grief he’d caused her, but his question might prove important for the Race, and so she was willing to put aside her own feelings. And it wasn’t as if she were speaking an untruth; as a male from the conquest fleet, Veffani did have more experience with Tosevites than she. She went on, “Perhaps such an approach could aid in the ultimate assimilation of Tosev 3.”

“Perhaps it could,” Veffani said. “Perhaps we should find out. If you can draft a memorandum outlining your views, I will forward it to Cairo with a recommendation for serious consideration-and with your name noted, of course.”

“I thank you, superior sir,” Felless said. “It shall be done.”

“Excellent,” Veffani answered. “I have long known you are capable of excellent work. I am glad to see you realizing your potential. Good-bye.” His image vanished from her monitor.

He hadn’t even taken her to task for her ginger habit, not directly. Maybe he thought she’d given up tasting. If so, he was wrong. She still used the Tosevite herb whenever she got the chance. But she did try to be careful about giving her pheromones a chance to subside before appearing in public; she didn’t want to lay yet another clutch of eggs. She’d mated once since coming to France, but, to her relief, hadn’t become gravid as a result.

She’d got involved in the memorandum when the speaker by the door hissed for attention. Felless hissed, too, in annoyance. “Who is it?” she asked.

“I: Business Administrator Keffesh,” came the reply. “I would like to ask your assistance on a matter of some delicacy.”

Now what is that supposed to mean? Felless wondered irritably. She realized she’d have to find out. She could open the door without fear of embarrassment; she hadn’t tasted in several days. With a sigh, she rose from her desk and poked a fingerclaw into the door’s control panel. As it slid open, she said, “I greet you, Business Administrator.”

“And I greet you, superior female.” Keffesh assumed the posture of respect. That was polite, but not altogether necessary, not with his rank close to hers. It likely meant he wanted something from her, and so wanted her in a good mood. Well, he’d already come out and said he was after something.

“What is this delicate matter?” Felless asked.

Keffesh approached it obliquely. “Do I correctly understand that, in a psychological experiment before this latest round of fighting with the Deutsche, you awarded a Tosevite female named Monique Dutourd a large sum of money?”

“Before I answer, let me consult my records.” Felless did, then made the affirmative gesture. “Yes, that appears to be correct. Is it germane?”

“It is, superior female,” Keffesh answered. “You see, Monique Dutourd has the same mother and father as Pierre Dutourd, a Big Ugly with whom I have done a substantial amount of business. You surely know how, among the Tosevites, these connections count for a good deal.”

“Indeed I do.” Felless made the affirmative gesture again. “You do well to note their importance, I might add. But I do not quite see…”

“Let me explain,” Keffesh said. “Monique Dutourd is at the moment in a certain amount of difficulty with the Francais authorities, for she is accused of having had a sexual relationship with a Deutsch officer while the Deutsche occupied this subregion. The Francais, as you must also know, are seeking to destroy memories of the Deutsch occupation and to punish those who aided and comforted the occupiers.”

“Yes, I know that, too,” Felless said. “The Race encourages it, as it makes the Francais more likely to be dependent on us.”

“In principle, I approve of this,” Keffesh said. “In practice, Monique Dutourd’s difficulties make it harder for Pierre Dutourd to carry on his business.”

“That is unfortunate, perhaps, but…” Felless shrugged. “Why should it matter to me, or to the Race as a whole?” Before Keffesh could answer, she swung both eye turrets toward him. “Wait. What sort of business is this Big Ugly in?”

Now Keffesh hesitated. “Superior female, I told you this was a matter of some delicacy. I hope I may rely on your discretion.” He brought his hand up near his mouth and shot out his tongue, as if he were tasting ginger.

Had Felless not been in the habit of tasting, too, she probably wouldn’t have known what that meant. As things were, she said, “I believe I understand.”

“Ahh.” Relief filled Keffesh’s hiss. “I hoped you would. I had been given to understand that you would.” By that he no doubt meant he’d heard of Felless’ ginger-induced disgrace. He went on, “If you could arrange leniency from the Francais, superior female, you would not find me ungrateful. You would not find Pierre Dutourd ungrateful, either.”

What exactly was he offering? All the ginger she could taste? Something like that, surely. Her tailstump quivered in excitement. She tried to make it hold still. Doing her best to sound casual, she said, “I make no promises-who can make promises where Big Uglies are involved? — but I will see what I can do.”

“I thank you, superior female.” Keffesh went into the posture of respect again. “I could ask for nothing more. And now I shall not disturb you any further.” He left the chamber.

Felless returned to the memorandum. First things first, she told herself. But she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind kept going back to ginger.

At last, sighing, she saved the memorandum and started trying to telephone the Francais authorities. That didn’t prove easy; the links between the Race’s phone system and that of France were as yet tenuous. At last, though, she reached an official with the formidable title of Minister of Purification. “Do you speak the language of the Race?” she asked, wondering where she could find an interpreter if he didn’t.

But Joseph Darnand did, after a fashion. “I speak it but a little bit,” he replied, his accent thick but comprehensible. “Speak you slowly, if it please you. What is it that you want?”

“I want you to release a certain prisoner here in Marseille, a female named Monique Dutourd,” Felless told him.

She waited for the Big Ugly to say, It shall be done. But Darnand acted for all the world as if France were as much an independent not-empire as the Reich had been before the fighting. “One moment, if it please you,” he said. “I shall consult my records.”

“Very well.” Felless could hardly say no to that.

It took a lot longer than the promised moment. Felless reminded herself that Tosevite data-retrieval systems were much less efficient than those of the Race. She had to remind herself of that several times before Joseph Darnand finally returned to the line. He said, “I regret, Senior Researcher, that this will be difficult. Without doubt, this female carried on a sexual relationship with a Deutsch officer-and not just any Deutsch officer, but one from their secret police. Such betrayal must be punished, unless there is some vitally important reason to forgive.”

At first, Felless thought he was flat-out refusing. Such disobedience from a Big Ugly supposed to be dependent on the Race would have infuriated her. But then she saw a possible loophole in his words. “Is it not true that this particular female was forced into this sexual relationship against her will?” That counted for a great deal among Tosevites, she knew. Thanks to ginger and ingenious males, it was also beginning to matter to the Race on Tosev 3.

“She claims this,” Joseph Darnand said scornfully. “But what female in such circumstances would not claim it? Our interrogators do not believe it to be true, not at all.”

“But I-and the Race, speaking through me-do believe it to be true in this case.” Felless knew how far she was stretching things. She personally knew next to nothing about the case, and speaking through her was not the fleetlord or an ambassador but a ginger dealer. With a small hiss of annoyance at herself and her role here, she went on, “And this female has cooperated with us. We would strongly appreciate her release.” She added an emphatic cough for good measure.

After another long silence on the other end of the line, the Francais minister of purification sighed. “Oh, very well,” he said. “I shall give the appropriate orders. At least you, unlike the Deutsche, are polite enough to disguise your commands as requests.” He knew he was supposed to be subservient, then. Felless had wondered.

Having got what she wanted, she could afford to be gracious. “I thank you very much,” she said, wondering how much ginger Keffesh would pay her for her services.

“It is nothing.” By Joseph Darnand’s tone, it was much more than that. He growled something in his own language as he broke the connection. Felless didn’t mind annoying him. In fact, she rather enjoyed it.

“Comrade General Secretary, the ambassador from Finland is here,” Vyacheslav Molotov’s secretary said.

“Good. Very good,” Molotov said. “By all means show him into the office. I have looked forward to this interview for many years. At last, I am in the position to bring it off.”

“Good morning, Comrade General Secretary,” Urho Kekkonen said in fluent Russian. He took tea from the samovar in the corner of the room and helped himself to smoked salmon on rye bread.

“Good morning,” Molotov replied: enough socializing. “Now-has your government come to a decision about the contents of the note you received from the foreign commissariat of the Soviet Union?”

Kekkonen slowly and deliberately chewed and swallowed. He was a big, broad-shouldered man who wore glasses thicker than Molotov’s. “We have, Comrade General Secretary,” he answered. “Finland rejects your demands in all particulars.”

“What?” Molotov was astonished, and had to work hard not to show it. “I would strongly suggest that you reconsider. I would very strongly suggest that you reconsider.”

“Nyet. ” Kekkonen spoke one of Molotov’s favorite words with almost offensive relish.

“Are you mad?” Molotov demanded. “Is your government mad? For a generation, you have sheltered under the wing of the Reich. But the Reich, these days, is a dead bird. Where will you shelter now from the just wrath of the workers and peasants of the Soviet Union at your aggression?”

“You were unjust when you invaded us in 1939,” Urho Kekkonen answered, “and you have not improved since. We have no intention of reconsidering. If you invade us again, we shall fight again.”

“We defeated you then,” Molotov said coldly. “We can do it again, you know. And, as I said, Germany is in no position to aid you.”

“I understand that,” the Finn said. “I understand it most thoroughly. That is why my government has entered into consultations with the Race. We were not eager to do this, you must understand, but the Soviet Union’s attitude left us no choice.”

For Molotov, the words were like a blow in the belly. He hadn’t made a worse miscalculation since the pact with the Nazis. “You would betray mankind?” he barked, his voice harsh.

“Nyet, ” Kekkonen repeated. “Our government would-and will-protect our country from aggression. Dealing with the Lizards is the only choice available to us at the moment. Because it is our only choice, we have taken it.”

It was not the choice Molotov had expected the Finns to take. They’d jealously protected their independence against the USSR. They’d also protected it, as much as they could, against the Germans. They’d been the Reich’s allies, but not, unlike Hungary and Romania, its subject allies. Molotov tried the best arrow left in his quiver: “How will your people take the news that you have surrendered to the Race?”

Kekkonen’s smile was almost as cold as any Molotov might have produced. “You misunderstand, Comrade General Secretary. In no way have we surrendered to the Race.”

“What?” Molotov was so furious, and so alarmed, he had trouble sounding dry. “Did you not just tell me that you are allowing the Race to occupy Finland?”

“Yes, the Race will have a military presence in my country,” Urho Kekkonen replied. “But the Lizards will not occupy us, any more than the Germans occupied us. We remain independent. The males of the Race in Finland will remain in their bases unless we are attacked, in which case they will cooperate with us in our defense. An attack on Finland will be construed as an attack on the Race.”

“I… see,” Molotov said. “This… agreement does not infringe on your sovereignty?”

Kekkonen shook his big head. “We do not care to have anyone infringe on our sovereignty. The Soviet Union has had some small trouble grasping this over the years. It includes you, it includes the Reich, and it also includes the Race.”

“I… see,” Molotov said again. “I had not believed the Lizards would enter into such an agreement.” If I had, I never would have issued that ultimatum.

“Perhaps no one had proposed such an arrangement to them before,” the Finnish ambassador answered. “Perhaps no one was in a position to propose such an agreement to them before. But we did, and they wasted no time in accepting.”

“Of course they accepted,” Molotov snapped. “You’ve let them put their foot in the door.”

“We judged it better to let them put their foot in the door than for you to force your foot in,” Kekkonen said.

Molotov didn’t answer right away. He was thinking furiously. The Lizards never would have agreed to such a bargain before the latest round of fighting with the Germans. (That the Finns wouldn’t have needed to ask for such an arrangement then was for the moment beside the point.) But they’d left the Reich independent but weak. They’d re-created an independent but weak France. And now they were fostering an independent Finland that could never be anything but weak.

They have hit upon something new, he thought. Now they are seeing what they can do with it. The Lizards still weren’t skilled diplomats, not by Earthly standards. Odds were, they never would be. But they played the game better than they had on first coming to Earth: then, they’d hardly realized there was a game to be played. They could learn. He wished they hadn’t started learning here.

Kekkonen said, “I presume we may now consider your ultimatum withdrawn?”

I ought to tell him no, Molotov thought. I ought to tell him we would be happy to go to war with the Finns and the Lizards both. That would jolt him out of his smug bourgeois complacency.

But it would also result in disaster for the Soviet Union. Molotov knew that only too well. Had he not known it, the recent horrid example of the Greater German Reich would have rubbed his nose in it. Fighting the Lizards was a tactic of last resort. And so, staring hatefully at Kekkonen through his spectacles, he bit off one word: “Da. ”

He took a certain amount of satisfaction in noting how relieved the Finn looked. Kekkonen hadn’t been sure he wouldn’t throw his country onto the funeral pyre for the sake of pride. The Nazis had, after all. But the Nazis weren’t rational, and never had been. The USSR was and would remain in the struggle against imperialism indefinitely. If he had to retreat today, he would advance tomorrow.

After Urho Kekkonen had left, Molotov summoned Andrei Gromyko and Marshal Zhukov. He told them what the Finns had done. Zhukov cursed. Gromyko came to the point: “What did you tell him, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich?”

“That we withdraw the ultimatum.” The words were sour as vomit in Molotov’s mouth, but he brought them out even so. Turning to Zhukov, he asked, “Or do you think I made a mistake?”

“No,” Zhukov said at once. “When the devil’s grandmother starts fooling with your plans, you have to change them.”

Molotov was relieved there. Unlike Kekkonen, he didn’t show it. Had Zhukov been bound and determined to fight the Lizards, he would have brushed Molotov aside and done it. But he’d fought them a generation before and wasn’t eager to repeat the experience, any more than Molotov was.

Gromyko’s shaggy eyebrows twitched. “Just when you think the Race too stupid to survive, you get a surprise like this.”

“What do you suggest to avoid similar unfortunate surprises, Andrei Andreyevich?” Molotov asked.

“Well, if we were going to present Romania with an ultimatum, this would be a good time to put it back on the shelf,” Gromyko answered. “Of course, we had no such plan in mind.”

“Of course,” Molotov said in a hollow voice. All three men looked at one another. Romania still held Bessarabia and northern Bukovina, lands the USSR had reclaimed under the 1940 Vienna Award, only to lose them again in the aftermath of the Hitlerite invasion. Now that the Reich could no longer come to the aid of its friends, the Romanian government would have been next on the list after Finland. But if the Romanians screamed for help and the Lizards answered, that would just give the Race a longer frontier with the USSR.

“Dammit, why wasn’t this anticipated?” Zhukov glared at Molotov. “We could have ended up with our dicks in the sausage machine.”

As he had with Kekkonen, Molotov had to fight for calm. If Zhukov got angry enough, the Red Army would start running the Soviet Union the very next day. But Molotov knew that acting as if he was afraid of that only made it more likely to happen. After a deep breath, he asked, “Georgi Konstantinovich, did you expect the Finns to seek support from the Lizards?”

“Me? No way in hell,” Zhukov answered. “But I’m a soldier. I don’t pretend to be a diplomat. I leave that kind of worrying to people who do pretend to be diplomats.” Now he glowered at Andrei Gromyko. Better at Gromyko than at me, Molotov thought.

Gromyko’s equanimity was almost as formidable as Molotov’s. The foreign commissar said, “We tried something. It didn’t work. The world will not end. No one reasonable could have imagined that the Finns would prefer the Race to their fellow humans.”

Zhukov grunted. “They preferred the Nazis to their fellow humans, back in ’41. They don’t much like us, for some reason or other.”

That would do as an understatement till a better one came along. As Zhukov said, the Finns had become Hitler’s cobelligerents as soon as they got the chance. Now they were teaching the Lizards to play balance-of-power politics? All that to avoid the influence of the peace-loving workers and peasants of the USSR? Molotov shook his head. “The Finns,” he said, “are an inherently unreliable people.”

“That’s true enough,” Marshal Zhukov agreed. In musing tones, he went on, “We could probably win a war in Finland, even against the Race. The Lizards’ logistics are very bad.”

“We could probably win a war against the Race in Finland,” Gromyko said acidly. “The Nazis more or less won a war against the Race in Poland. But they didn’t win their war against the Race. Could we?”

“Of course not,” Zhukov answered at once.

“Of course not. I agree,” Molotov said. “That is why, when Kekkonen presented me with a fait accompli, I saw no choice but to withdraw our note. We cannot anticipate everything, Georgi Konstantinovich. Even the dialectic shows only trends, not details. We shall have other chances.”

“Oh, very well.” Zhukov sounded like a sulky child.

“It is not as if our own sovereignty were weakened,” Gromyko said, and the marshal nodded. That satisfied him, as least for the moment. It salved Molotov, but it didn’t satisfy him. The Soviet Union’s sovereignty survived; its prestige, as he knew too well, had taken a beating.

Something would have to be done about that. Not in Europe, barring desperate times he didn’t foresee. The Lizards’ eye turrets were looking that way. But the USSR had the longest land frontier of any nation-any human nation-on Earth. “Persia,” Molotov murmured. “Afghanistan. China, of course. Always China.”

With considerable pleasure, Atvar studied the reports he had received from Helsinki and Moscow. Swinging one eye turret toward Pshing, he said, “Here is something that, for once, appears to have worked very well indeed. The Soviet Union has retreated from its threats against Finland, and our influence over that small not-empire is increased.” His mouth fell open in a laugh. “Since we had essentially no influence over Finland up until this time, any influence is an increase.”

“Truth, Exalted Fleetlord,” his adjutant agreed. After a moment, though, he added, “A pity we could not arrange to incorporate the not-empire into the territory we administer directly.”

“I too would have liked that,” Atvar said. “But when our representative broached the idea to the leaders of the Finnish not-empire, they flatly refused. We have taken what we could get-not everything we wanted, but much better than nothing.”

Pshing sighed. “On this world, Exalted Fleetlord, we have never been able to get everything we wanted. Too often, we have had to count ourselves lucky to get any of what we wanted.”

“That, unfortunately, is also truth,” the fleetlord said. “It is why I agreed to this half measure-in fact, something less than a half measure. But it did succeed in making the SSSR pull back.”

“What would you have done had the SSSR chosen to invade this small not-empire in spite of our presence there?” Pshing asked.

“Let me put it this way: I am glad we did not have to put it to the test.” Atvar felt like adding an emphatic cough to that, but didn’t; he didn’t care to have his adjutant know just how glad he was. “One thing we have done since coming to Tosev 3 is show the Big Uglies that they can-indeed, that they must-rely on our word. Because of that, the Russkis were convinced we would honor our commitment to Finland, and so did not presume to test it. If you think this makes me unhappy, you are mistaken.”

“What can we do to increase our influence over the Finns now that we have established this presence?” Pshing asked.

“I do not yet know that,” Atvar answered. “We have had little to do with that subgroup of Big Uglies up till now, not least because of the truly horrendous climate of their not-empire. Reports from both the Russkis and the Deutsche indicate that they are first-rate fighters. Our own experts indicate that the Deutsche have not stinted in keeping them supplied with the most sophisticated Tosevite weaponry.”

“Not explosive-metal bombs, I hope,” his adjutant exclaimed.

“Not to my knowledge, for which I praise the spirits of Emperors past.” Atvar cast down his eye turrets for a moment. “No, we are nearly certain the Finns do not possess weapons of that type.”

“Then, in case of emergency, we can use the threat of employing such weapons against them to bring them toward meeting our requirements,” Pshing said.

But Atvar made the negative hand gesture. “That has been considered. It has also been rejected. Analysis indicates that the Finnish Tosevites would be more likely either to resist on their own or to call on the Russkis for aid against us.”

“How could they do that?” Pshing asked. “They are presently calling on us for aid against the SSSR.”

“Tosevite diplomatists have a phrase: balance of power,” Atvar said. “What this means is, using your less annoying neighbor to protect you from your more annoying neighbor. If the annoyance level changes, the direction of the alliance can also change, and change very quickly.”

“I see,” Pshing said. “Yes, that is the sort of system Big Uglies would be likely to devise.”

“You speak sarcastically, but your words hold an egg of truth,” the fleetlord said. “Because the Big Uglies have always been divided up into so many competing factions, they have naturally needed to develop means for improving their particular group’s chance for short-term success-the only kind they consider-and reducing the chances of their opponents. And now that we are a part of this competitive system, we have had to adopt or adapt these techniques ourselves. Without them, we would be at a severe disadvantage.”

“Back in the days of ancientest history, I am certain that our ancestors were more virtuous,” Pshing said.

“You would probably be surprised,” Atvar answered. “In preparing for this mission, I had to study a good deal more ancientest history than is commonly taught in schools. I can understand why so much of it is suppressed, as a matter of fact. Back in the days before the Empire unified Home, our ancestors were a cantankerous lot. They would likely have been better equipped to deal with the Big Uglies than we are, because they seem to have spent a good deal of their time cheating one another.”

“Exalted Fleetlord, you shock me,” Pshing said.

“Well, I was shocked myself,” Atvar admitted. “The trouble is, our early ancestors actually did these things and were experienced in diplomacy and duplicity. Since the Empire unified Home a hundred thousand years ago, we have forgotten such techniques. We did not really need them when we conquered the Rabotevs and Hallessi, though the fleetlords of those conquest fleets studied them, too. And, of course, our so-called experts aboard the colonization fleet studied our earlier conquests on the assumption that this one would be analogous. That is why they have been of so little use to us: false assumptions always lead to bad policy.”

“Experts aboard the colonization fleet,” Pshing echoed. “That reminds me, Exalted Fleetlord-you will surely recall Senior Researcher Felless?”

“Oh, yes.” Atvar made the affirmative gesture. “The alleged expert on Big Ugly psychology who decided to imitate or exceed the Tosevites’ sexual excesses. Why should I recall her, Pshing? What has she done now to draw my eye turrets in her direction? Another disgrace with ginger?”

“I am not precisely sure, Exalted Fleetlord,” his adjutant answered. “No one appears to be precisely sure. She used her influence in France to obtain the release of a certain prisoner charged with previous collaboration-sexual collaboration-with the Deutsche. As I understand things, it does appear that the prisoner was in fact coerced into this sexual collaboration, a Tosevite crime that ginger has allowed us to discover as well.”

“Indeed,” the fleetlord said. “What is the difficulty if Felless was acting in the interest of justice, as appears to be the case?”

“The difficulty, Exalted Fleetlord, is that the prisoner in question also has a family connection to one of the leading Tosevite ginger smugglers in Marseille,” Pshing replied.

“Oh. I see.” Atvar’s voice was heavy with meaning. “Did Senior Researcher Felless come to the Big Ugly’s aid from a sense of justice or from a longing for a limitless supply of the Tosevite herb, then?”

“No one knows,” Pshing answered. “Ambassador Veffani notes that her work has been excellent of late, but he also suspects that she still tastes ginger. Judging motivation is not always simple.”

“One could hardly disagree with that,” Atvar said. “Veffani is a more than competent male. I presume he is continuing to monitor developments in France?”

“He is, Exalted Fleetlord,” Pshing said. “If ambiguity diminishes, he will notify us, and will take the actions he deems justified.”

“Very well.” It wasn’t very well, but Atvar couldn’t do anything about it save wait. “What other tidbits of news have we?”

“We have received another protest from the not-empire of the United States concerning incursions of our domestic animals into their territory,” Pshing said. “They have also begun complaining that the seeds of certain of our domestic plants have spread north of the border between our territory and theirs.”

“If those are the worst complaints the American Big Uglies have, they should count themselves lucky,” Atvar said with a scornful laugh. “They are fortunate. They seem not to realize how fortunate they are. I shall not personally respond to this protest. You may tell them to compare their situation to that of the Deutsche and, having done so, to decide if their sniveling-use that word-has merit.”

“It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord,” Pshing replied. “In fact, I shall take considerable pleasure in doing it. The American Tosevites complain because they have lost a fingerclaw, not because they have lost fingers.”

“Exactly so,” Atvar said. “You may also tell them that, and you need not soften it very much. And you may tell them that they are welcome to slay any of our domestic animals they find on their side of the border, and to enjoy the meat once they have slain them. Furthermore, tell them they may pull up any plants of ours they find in their land. We shall have no complaints if they do. But if they labor under the delusion that we can stop animals from wandering and plants from propagating and spreading, my opinion is and shall remain that they are deluded indeed.”

“May I tell them that?” Pshing asked eagerly.

“Why not?” the fleetlord said. “The Americans have self-righteousness as a common failing, as the Deutsche have arrogance and the Russkis have obfuscation. Tell Ambassador Lodge what he needs to hear, not just what he might want to hear.”

“Again, Exalted Fleetlord, it shall be done,” his adjutant said. “And, again, I will enjoy doing it.”

Atvar called up some maps of the northern part of the lesser continental mass. He checked climatological data, then hissed in derision. “It appears unlikely that our plants will be able to flourish in most of the regions where the American Big Uglies raise most of their food crops-their harsh winters will kill plants used to decent weather. They have not lost even a fingerclaw; they may perhaps have chipped one. The farmers in the subregion of the greater continental mass called India have a genuine grievance against us: there, our plants compete successfully against those they are used to growing.”

“As you say, the Americans have nothing large that exercises them, so they have to get exercised over small things,” Pshing answered. “The next Tosevite we discover who cannot complain at any excuse or none will be the first.”

“Truth!” Atvar used an emphatic cough. “I truly believe that their constant carping was what finally pushed the Deutsche into war against us. They complained so often and over so many different things, they finally persuaded themselves they were doing what was good and true and right. And so they attacked, and so they failed. I doubt it will teach them much of a lesson, but we shall do our best to make sure they lack the strength to try adventurism again.”

“Unlike Tosevites, we have the patience for such a course,” Pshing observed.

“Yes.” The fleetlord’s thought went down another road. “Fortunate that the SSSR, unlike the Reich, chose to see reason. Had the Russkis been determined to try to annex Finland in spite of our prohibition, life would have become more difficult.”

“We would have beaten them,” Pshing said.

“Of course we would have beaten them,” Atvar replied. “But beating them would have been the same as beating the Deutsche: difficult, annoying, and much more trouble than the cause of the quarrel was worth.” He paused. “And if that is not a summary of our experience on Tosev 3, I do not know what is.”