Down to Earth

10

“Dammit, I want another chance at him!” Monique Dutourd said in a savage whisper as she examined tomatoes in the greengrocer’s.

“Not right now,” Lucie answered, choosing one for herself. “If things change, then yes, certainly. But we don’t want to draw too much heat from the Nazis down on our heads, not for a bit.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to sleep with him.” Monique knew she sounded bitter. Why not? She damn well was.

“No, I’m sleeping with your brother.” Lucie’s voice made the prospect sound extraordinarily nasty, even though she and Pierre Dutourd were both on the dumpy side. “And getting the Lizards to do things isn’t so easy, whether you know it or not. They were very unhappy when they rubbed out that fishmonger.”

“Not half so unhappy as I was,” Monique said mournfully. “I had my hopes up-and then the miserable fool started shooting too soon. And I’m still stuck with Kuhn.”

Lucie shrugged. “If you want to put arsenic in his wine, I won’t tell you not to do it, but you’re liable to get caught. The advantage of the Lizards is, if they do the job, you get away scot free.”

“So do you. So does Pierre.” Monique put a tomato into her string bag. “The only reason Kuhn started bothering me was to get at Pierre-and I didn’t even know Pierre was alive then.”

“Only an American would expect life to be fair all the time,” Lucie said. “It isn’t as though the Boches gave us no trouble.”

That was undoubtedly true. It didn’t make Monique feel any better. It didn’t keep Dieter Kuhn out of her bedroom, either. “Maybe I will put arsenic in his wine,” she said. “And after they arrest me for it and start working me over, I’ll tell them it was your idea.”

“They already want to get their hands on me,” Lucie said with a shrug. “Giving them one more reason isn’t so much of a much.”

Monique was tempted to throw a tomato at her. But if she angered Lucie, her own brother might stop having anything to do with her. What would she do then? Stay an SS man’s unwilling mistress till the end of time? That was intolerable. “I want to get away!” she cried, loud enough to make the greengrocer look up from what he was reading-a girlie magazine, by the cover.

“Well, then, why don’t you?” Lucie said. “If you stay in your flat and let the Nazi come over whenever he chooses and do whatever he wants, why do you think you deserve anything in the way of sympathy?”

Again, Monique felt like hitting her. “What am I supposed to do, sneak out of my flat, throw away my position at the university, and sell drugs with you in Porte d’Aix?” Without waiting for an answer, she took her vegetables up to the shopkeeper. He gave her an unhappy look; totting up what she owed made him put down the magazine. She paid, got her change, and went out into the warm air of late summer. The sun didn’t stand so high in the sky as it had a couple of months before. Autumn was coming, and then winter, though winter in Marseille wasn’t the savage beast it was farther north.

Monique was swinging aboard her bicycle when Lucie came out, too. Her brother’s mistress said, “If you want to disappear, Pierre and I can arrange it. It’s easier than you think, as a matter of fact. And if it gets that German out of your hair and out of your bed, why not?”

“You must be crazy,” Monique said. “I’ve spent my whole life training to be a Roman historian. Now that I finally am, I can’t just throw that over.”

“If you say so, dearie,” Lucie answered. “But I’m damned if see why not.” She got on her own bicycle and pedaled away.

With a muttered curse, Monique rode back to her own block of flats. No bloodstains remained to show where the luckless fish seller had been gunned down instead of Sturmbannfuhrer Dieter Kuhn, but she saw them in her mind’s eye. But I’m damned if I can see why it wasn’t him. The words gnawed at her as she went upstairs.

They gnawed even more after Kuhn paid her a visit that evening. As usual, he enjoyed himself and she didn’t. “I wish you would leave me alone,” she said wearily as he was getting dressed to leave again.

He smiled at her-a smile both sated and something else, something less pleasant. “I know you do. That is one of the things that keeps me coming back, sweetheart. Bonne nuit.” He turned on his heel and walked out, jackboots thumping on her carpet.

After he was gone, she got up, cleaned herself off-the bidet didn’t seem nearly enough-put on a robe, and tried to read some Latin. None of her inscriptions seemed to mean anything. She fought them for a while, then sighed, scowled, and gave up and went to bed.

She slept late the next morning: it was Sunday. Church bells clanged as she made her morning coffee. Along with a croissant and strawberry jam, it made a good breakfast. She lit a cigarette and sucked in harsh smoke.

A flat full of books, a university position where promotion would be slow if it ever came at all, a German lover she loathed. This is what I’ve made of my life? she thought, and the notion was far harsher than the smoke.

She didn’t want to go back into the bedroom even to dress; it reminded her too much of Dieter Kuhn’s odious presence. As soon as she had dressed, she left and manhandled her bicycle down the stairs. She couldn’t stand staying cooped up in there, wrestling with a dead language and with dead hopes. Off she rode, away from her troubles, away from Marseille, up into the hills back of the city that rose steeply from the Mediterranean Sea.

The Germans had placed antiaircraft-missile batteries in those hills. Otherwise, though, she had a surprisingly easy time escaping from civilization. Presently, she pulled off a dirt track and sat down on a flat yellow stone. Somewhere a long way off, a dog barked. Skippers flitted from dandelion to thistle to clover. If only I didn’t have to go home, Monique thought.

Here and there in the hills, men scratched out a living from little farms. Others herded sheep and goats. One of them is bound to be looking for a wife. Monique laughed at herself. Not going home was one thing. Spending the rest of her life as a peasant woman was something else again. Next to that, even Dieter Kuhn looked less appalling… didn’t he?

Monique didn’t have to think about the German now. She didn’t have to think about anything. She could lean back on the stone and close her eyes and let the sunshine turn the inside of her eyelids red. She wasn’t free. She knew she wasn’t, but she could pretend to be, at least for a little while.

A bee buzzing round her head made her open her eyes. Another bicyclist was coming up the dirt track toward her. She frowned. Company was the last thing she wanted right now. Then she recognized the man on the bicycle. She stood up. “How did you find me?” she demanded angrily.

Her brother smiled as he stopped. “There are ways.”

“Such as?” Monique said, hands on hips. Pierre’s smile got wider and more annoying. She thought for a moment. Then she got angry for another reason. “You put some miserable Lizard toy on my bicycle!”

“Would I do such a thing?” Her brother’s amiability was revoltingly smug.

“Of course you would,” Monique answered. She looked at the bicycle that had betrayed her. “Now-did the Germans do the same thing? Will that dog of a Kuhn come pedaling up the road ten minutes from now?” If anything, she would have expected the SS man to get out from Marseille faster than her brother. However much she despised Dieter Kuhn, he was in far better shape than Pierre.

“I don’t think so.” Pierre still sounded smug. “I would know if they had.”

“Would you?” Monique didn’t trust anyone any more. I wonder why, she thought. “Remember, the Nazis are starting to be able to listen to your talk on the telephone, even though you didn’t think they could do that. So are you sure the gadgets you have from the Lizards areas good as they say?”

To her surprise, her brother looked thoughtful. “Am I sure? No, I’m not sure. But I have a pretty good notion with this one.”

Monique tossed her head. No matter how good a notion he had, she didn’t particularly want him around. She didn’t want anyone around. Why else would she have come all the way out here? “All right, then,” she said grudgingly. “What do you want? You must want something.”

“I should resent that,” Pierre said. Monique shrugged, as if telling him to go ahead. He laughed, annoying her further, and went on, “There you have me.”

“Say your say, then, and leave me what’s left of the day. Monday morning, I have to be a scholar again.”

Pierre clicked his tongue between his teeth. “And Monday night, very likely, you will have another visit from the fellow you love so well.”

She spent the next minute or so cursing him. One of the main reasons she’d come up here was to forget about Dieter Kuhn for a little while. It didn’t seem she could even do that.

Her brother waited till she ran down, then said, “If you want to be rid of him for good, you really should come down to the Porte d’Aix. He won’t bother you there, I promise you that, and you might be very useful to me.”

“I don’t care whether I’m useful to you or not,” Monique flared. “All I want is to be left alone. I haven’t had much luck with that, and it’s your fault.”

He bowed, more than a little scornfully. “No doubt you are right. Do you care about whether the Boche comes to your bedroom tomorrow night?”

“Damn you,” Monique said. If it weren’t for Kuhn-and it wouldn’t have been for Kuhn except for Pierre… “All I want is to be left alone.” She’d already said that. Saying it again underlined it in her own mind.

Saying it again did nothing for Pierre, though. “You can’t have that. It might be nice if you could, but you can’t. You can have the Nazi up your twat, or you can have the Porte d’Aix. Which will it be?”

Monique looked around for a rock. There by her feet lay a good one, just the size of her hand. If she bounced it off her brother’s head, she might shut him up for good. It wasn’t so simple. It couldn’t be so simple. If she stayed where she was, that didn’t just mean Kuhn. It meant her classes, her research, her friends at the university-not that she’d had time for them lately. And her research had gone to hell; she’d thought that the night before. As for her classes, Kuhn had got to know her through them. So what did that leave her?

Nothing, which was exactly what her life had become. How could it be worse, down there in the Porte d’Aix? One word and she’d find out how it could be worse. The past couple of years had taught her such things were always possible.

“Porte d’Aix,” she said wearily. If it was worse, it was worse, that was all. At least she’d escape Dieter Kuhn.

Pierre beamed. “Oh, good. I won’t have to tell my friends to put all that stuff back into your flat.” She glared furiously. He kept right on beaming. “Little sister of mine, I knew you would see sense when someone pointed it out to you.”

“Did you?” Monique said. Her brother nodded. She asked another question: “Did I?” Pierre couldn’t answer that one. Neither could she. But she’d find out.

Nesseref bustled about, making sure everything in her apartment was just the way she wanted it to be. She didn’t have guests all that often, and these would be special. She’d even borrowed a couple of chairs for the occasion.

She swung an eye turret toward Orbit. The tsiongi wasn’t too happy about being on a leash inside the apartment. Maybe she’d be able to let him off later on. But maybe she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t know for a bit, and didn’t feel like taking chances: very much a shuttlecraft pilot’s view of the world.

When the knock came, she knew at once who it had to be: no male or female of the Race would have knocked so high on the door. Few males or females would have knocked at all; most would have used the hisser set into the wall by the door frame. But using the hisser required a fingerclaw, and her guests had none.

She opened the door. “I greet you, Mordechai Anielewicz,” she said. “Come in. And this is your hatchling?”

“I greet you, Nesseref,” the Tosevite said. “Yes, this is my hatchling. His name is Heinrich.” He said something to the younger Big Ugly in their own language.

“I greet you, superior female,” Heinrich Anielewicz said in the language of the Race. “I learn your speech in school.”

He didn’t speak very well, even for a Big Ugly. But she could understand him. As she did with Mordechai Anielewicz’s use of the Race’s written language, she made allowances. Speaking as if to a youngster of her own species, she said, “I greet you, Heinrich Anielewicz. I am glad you are learning my speech. I think it will be useful for you later in life.”

“I also think so,” Heinrich said, whether because he really did or because that was an easy way to answer, Nesseref did not know. Then the gaze of the small Big Ugly-he was just about Nesseref’s size-fell on Orbit. “What is that?” he asked. “It is not a beffel.”

Nesseref laughed. Orbit would have been insulted had he understood. “No, he is not a beffel,” the shuttlecraft pilot agreed. “He is called a tsiongi.”

“May I…” Heinrich cast about for a way to say what he wanted; he plainly didn’t have much in the way of vocabulary. But he managed: “May I be friends with it?” Without waiting for a reply, he started toward the tsiongi.

“Be careful,” Nesseref said, to him and to Mordechai Anielewicz as well. “I do not know how the tsiongi will react to Tosevites coming up to him. None of your species has ever done that before.”

Mordechai Anielewicz followed his hatchling, ready to snatch him back from danger. The younger Big Ugly, rather to Nesseref’s surprise, did what a male or female of the Race might have done: he stretched out a hand toward the tsiongi to let the beast smell him. Orbit’s tongue shot out and brushed his fleshy little fingers. The tsiongi let out a discontented hiss and deliberately turned away.

Although Nesseref didn’t know all she might have about how Tosevites reacted, she would have bet that Heinrich Anielewicz was discontented, too. Mordechai Anielewicz spoke to his hatchling in their own language. Then he returned to the language of the Race for Nesseref’s benefit: “I told him this animal might smell on him the odor of the beffel we have at home. Some of our own animals do not like the smell that others have, either.”

“Ah? Is that a truth? How interesting.” Nesseref saw no reason why things like that shouldn’t be so, but that they might be hadn’t occurred to her. “In some ways, then, life on Tosev 3 and life on Home are not so very different.” She turned her eye turrets toward Heinrich Anielewicz. “And how did you get a beffel of your own?”

“I find it in the street,” he answered. Then he started speaking his own language.

Mordechai translated: “He says he gave it something to eat and it followed him home. He says he likes it very much. And you know how the beffel helped save us when the fire started.”

“Yes, I know that. You wrote of it,” Nesseref said. “What I find hard to imagine is having a fire starting in a building where males and females of your species live.”

“When I see this building, I understand why you find it hard to imagine.” The larger Anielewicz used an emphatic cough. “But our buildings are not like this. And this fire was set on purpose, to try to kill me, or so I think.” He spoke quickly there, doing his best to make sure his hatchling couldn’t follow what he said.

He succeeded in that, and, in any case, Heinrich Anielewicz seemed more interested in Orbit than in Nesseref. The shuttle-craft pilot said, “You have vicious enemies.”

“Truth.” Mordechai’s shrug was much like one from a male of the Race. “Do you see why I would rather talk about befflem?”

“Befflem?” Heinrich understood that word. “What about befflem?”

“What interests me about befflem,” Nesseref said, “is that they have so quickly begun to run wild here. I hear this is true of several kinds of our animals. We begin to make Tosev 3 into a world more like Home through them.”

Heinrich didn’t get all of that. Mordechai did. He said, “For you, this may be fine. For us, I do not think it is.”

Before Nesseref could answer that, the timer in the kitchen hissed. “Ah, good,” she said. “That means supper is ready. I have made it from the meat of Tosevite animals, as you asked, and made sure none of it was from the one you call ‘pig.’ I do not understand why you cannot eat other meats, but I am not quarreling with you.”

“We Jews can eat other meats, but we may not,” Mordechai Anielewicz said. “It is one of the rules of our… superstition, is what the Race calls it.”

“Why have such rules?” Nesseref asked. “Do they not pose a nutritional hardship?”

“Nor really, or not very often,” Mordechai answered. “They do help remind us that we are a special group of Tosevites. Our belief is that the one who created the universe made us his chosen group.”

Nesseref had learned that all Big Uglies were on the prickly side when it came to their superstitions. Picking her words with care, she asked, “Chosen for what? For disagreements with your neighbors?”

Mordechai Anielewicz translated that into his own tongue. He and Heinrich both let out yips of barking Tosevite laughter. In the language of the Race, Mordechai said, “It often seems so.”

“Well, you and your hatchling and I are not disagreeing,” Nesseref said. “Let us sit down and eat together. I have alcohol for you, if you would care for it. Afterwards, we can talk more about these things.”

“Good enough,” Mordechai said. “Can I do anything to help?”

“I do not think so,” Nesseref said. “I have chairs for your kind, and I also have your style of eating utensils. Let us use them now.”

Heinrich Anielewicz went straight through the doorway into the eating area. Mordechai Anielewicz had to duck his head to get through, as he’d had to duck his head to enter Nesseref’s apartment. She’d wondered if he would be able to stand straight inside the apartment, but his head didn’t quite brush the ceiling.

Even so, he said, “Now I understand why the Race calls us Big Uglies. In a place made for the Race, I feel very large indeed.” He spoke in his own tongue to his hatchling, who answered him in the same language. The older Tosevite translated: “Heinrich says he thinks this place is just the right size.”

“For him, it would be.” Nesseref corrected herself: “For him, it would be now. When he is full grown, it will seem cramped to him, too. Here, sit down, both of you, and I will bring the food and the alcohol.”

“Only a little alcohol for my hatchling,” Mordechai Anielewicz said. “It is not our custom to let hatchlings become intoxicated.”

“Nor ours,” Nesseref agreed, “but a little will do no harm.” The elder Anielewicz’s head went up and down, the Tosevite gesture of agreement.

After a moment, Nesseref brought bowls of stew from the kitchen to the table. Nothing in the stew would offend Mordechai and Heinrich’s sensibilities: it was of the local meat called beef, and had more vegetables in it than Nesseref would have used had she been cooking for herself. Tosevites, she’d learned, preferred more calories from carbohydrates and fewer from proteins and fats than did the Race.

As everyone began to eat, a problem developed. Mordechai Anielewicz said, “Superior female, may we please have knives as well as forks and spoons? Some of these pieces are rather large for us.”

“It shall be done.” Nesseref hurried back into the kitchen and returned with the utensils. As she handed one to each of the Tosevites, she said, “You have my apologies. I cut the meat and the vegetables in portions that would fit my mouth, forgetting that yours are smaller.”

“No harm done,” Mordechai Anielewicz said. “We have creatures called ‘snakes’ that can take very large bites, but we Tosevites cannot.”

The Big Uglies’ smaller mouthparts didn’t keep them from finishing the supper at about the same time as Nesseref did. “Is it enough?” she asked anxiously. “I do not know just how much you eat at a meal. If you are still hungry, plenty more is in the pot.”

After the elder and younger spoke back and forth, Mordechai said, “My hatchling tells me he has had enough. You gave him about what he would eat at home. I would thank you for a little more, if it is no trouble.”

“It is no trouble at all.” Nesseref used an emphatic cough. She brought the bigger Big Ugly another bowl of stew, and also took a smaller second helping for herself. To the growing hatchling, she said, “You may play with the tsiongi while we finish, if he will permit it. Please be careful, though. If he does not, just watch him. I do not want you bitten.”

Heinrich Anielewicz followed that without need for translation. “I thank you, superior female,” he said. “It shall be done.” He brought out the stock phrases more fluently than he spoke while trying to shape his own thoughts in the Race’s language. Pushing back his chair, he returned to the front room. Nesseref listened for sounds of alarm, but none came.

Mordechai Anielewicz sipped at his alcohol. He too seemed to be listening to make sure Heinrich and Orbit were getting on well. When things had stayed quiet for a little while, he said, “May I ask you a question, superior female?”

“You may ask,” Nesseref said. “I may not know the answer, or I may know and be unable to tell you. That depends on the question.”

“I understand,” the Big Ugly said. “Here it is: Do you know how close the Deutsche came to launching an attack on Poland recently?”

“Ah,” Nesseref said. “No, I do not know how close, not for a certainty. For that, you would have to talk with the males of the conquest fleet. I do know my shuttlecraft port was placed on heightened alert, and that the alert was abandoned a few days later. The Race, I would say, judges any immediate danger past.”

“The Race, I would say, is too optimistic,” Anielewicz answered. “But I thank you for the information. It confirms other things I have learned. We may have been very lucky there.”

Nesseref asked a question of her own: “And if we had not been? What would you have done with your explosive-metal bomb then?” She still didn’t know if he had one, but she thought he might.

“Do you know the Tosevite story of Samson in the, uh, house of superstition?” Anielewicz asked. When the shuttlecraft pilot made the negative hand gesture, the Big Ugly said, “Count yourself lucky.” He added an emphatic cough.

Atvar turned an eye turret toward Pshing with more than a little annoyance. “Must I see the accursed Tosevite now?” he said.

“Exalted Fleetlord, it is a scheduled appointment,” his adjutant answered. “Having conceded these not-empires their independence, we seem to have little choice but to treat them as if we meant it.”

“I am painfully aware of that,” Atvar answered. “If you will recall, I recently suffered through a harangue from the American ambassador, who seemed shocked we would presume to swing an eye turret in the direction of what his not-empire is doing with its spaceship. Truculent, arrogant… Maybe I should retire and let Reffet see how he likes taking on this whole burden.”

“Please do not do that, Exalted Fleetlord,” Pshing said earnestly. “You would leave us at the mercy of the colonists. They still show little true understanding of the realities of Tosev 3.”

“Well, there you have spoken a truth,” Atvar said, flattered. “But it is a temptation, nonetheless. I have done too much for too long. Kirel might manage as well-or as poorly-as I have.”

In Atvar’s opinion, the thing most likely to limit Kirel’s effectiveness was Kirel himself. He kept that to himself; he would not cast aspersions on the senior shiplord of the conquest fleet to amuse his adjutant. “Send in the Deutsch ambassador,” he said. “The sooner I have heard his absurd, outlandish complaints, the sooner I can dispose of them.”

“It shall be done.” Pshing went out into an antechamber and returned with a Big Ugly named Ludwig Bieberback.

Atvar preferred dealing with Bieberback to trying to deal with his predecessor, Ribbentrop. This Tosevite had some elementary understanding of the world around him. He also spoke the language of the Race; going through interpreters had often been enough to give Atvar the itch.

“I greet you, Exalted Fleetlord,” the Deutsch male said now, assuming the posture of respect.

“And I greet you, Ambassador,” Atvar replied. “Please be seated.” He waved the Big Ugly to a chair made for his kind.

“I thank you.” After Bieberback had sat down, he said, “Exalted Fleetlord, I am here to protest the arrogant and highhanded way in which the Race’s ambassador to the Reich presumed to pass judgment on our movements of soldiers within our own territory.”

“He did so at my express order,” Atvar said; he had learned from painful experience that rudeness worked better with the Deutsche than tact, which they took for weakness. “If you try to attack Poland, we will smash you flat. Is that plain enough for you to understand?”

“We deny that the Reich intended to do any such thing,” Ludwig Bieberback said. “We have a legitimate right of self-defense, and we were exercising it in a nonprovocative manner.”

“No, you were not, or I would not have had my warning delivered to you,” Atvar said. “And we do not find your denials credible. The Reich has carried on a covert conflict with the Race since the fighting stopped. To have that break into open war would not surprise us in the least, and you would not find us unprepared to take the harshest measures against your not-empire.”

“This presumption of yours is intolerable,” Bieberback said. “Is it any wonder so many Tosevites seek to be free of your rule?”

“Nothing Tosevites do is much of a wonder,” Atvar said. “Is it any wonder that the Race has to keep both eye turrets toward all Tosevite not-empires at all times, to make sure we are not treacherously assailed?”

“That is not how the Race operates in practice,” Bieberback answered, a whine coming into his mushy voice. “In practice, you persecute the Reich more than all others put together.”

“You have spoken an untruth,” the fleetlord told him. “And if we do keep a particularly close watch on the Reich, it is because the Reich has shown itself to be particularly untrustworthy.”

“Now you have spoken an untruth,” Ludwig Bieberback said, a discourtesy no one from the Race except Reffet would have presumed to offer Atvar. “If we cannot live in peace, we will have to see how else the Deutsche can obtain their legitimate rights from you.”

“If you try to take what you imagine to be your legitimate rights by force, you will discover how easy your not-empire is to devastate,” Atvar said.

“What gives you the right to make such threats?” Bieberback demanded.

“The power to make them good,” Atvar replied. “You and your not-emperor would be wise to remember it.”

Bieberback rose and bowed, the Tosevite equivalent of assuming the posture of respect. “I think there is little point to continuing these discussions,” he said. “The Reich will act in accordance to its interests.”

“Yes, the Reich would be wise to do that,” Atvar agreed. “It would also be wise to bear in mind that antagonizing the Race is not in its interest. Antagonize the Race enough and the Reich will abruptly cease to be.”

With another bow, the Big Ugly said, “We shall defend ourselves against your aggression to the best of our ability. Good day.” Without waiting for the fleetlord’s leave, he walked out of the office.

Atvar let out a long sigh. Pshing came in a moment later. The fleetlord said, “We shall have to keep ourselves at increased alert against the Reich. Plainly, the Deutsche have belligerent intentions.”

“Shall I prepare orders to that effect?” Pshing asked.

“Yes, do so,” Atvar answered. “So long as these Big Uglies see they cannot take us by surprise, they are unlikely to attack us. If we ignore them, we put ourselves in danger.”

“Truth,” Exalted Fleetlord,” Pshing said. “I shall draft the orders for your approval.”

“Very good.” Atvar made the affirmative hand gesture. “And when you transmit them to the males of the conquest fleet in Poland and in space, do not do so over the channels with the greatest security.”

His adjutant let out a startled hiss. “Exalted Fleetlord? If I follow that order, the Deutsche are only too likely to intercept our transmission. Much as I hate to say it, they are beginning to gain the technology required to defeat some of our less sophisticated scrambler circuits.”

“Yes, so I understand from some of the reports reaching us from the part of the Reich known as France,” Atvar replied. “In most circumstances, this is a nuisance-worse than a nuisance, in fact. But here, I want them to intercept the order. I want them to know we are alerted to the possibility of unprovoked attack from them. I want them to know that they will pay dearly if they make such an attack.”

“Ah.” Pshing assumed the posture of respect. “Exalted Fleetlord, I congratulate you. That is deviousness worthy of a Big Ugly.”

“I thank you,” Atvar said, even if the form of the compliment was not what he might have liked. “The Deutsche will feel they have genuinely important information if they think they are stealing it from us. If we give it to them, on the other fork of the tongue, they will think we want them to have it, and so will discount it.”

“Ah,” Pshing repeated. He turned an eye turret toward the fleetlord. “No one from the colonization fleet could possibly have such a deep understanding of the way Big Uglies think.”

That was a compliment Atvar could appreciate in full. “And I thank you once more,” he said. “By now, we of the conquest fleet have more experience of the Tosevites than anyone could want.”

“Even so,” Pshing said with an emphatic cough. “In aid of which, have you yet decided what we ought to do with the rabble-rouser named Khomeini now that he is finally in our hands?”

“Not yet,” Atvar said. “By the Emperor, though, having his hateful voice silenced is a relief. He is far from the only fanatical agitator in this part of the main continental mass, but he was among the most virulent and the most effective.”

“His followers are among the most virulent, too, even among those who follow the Muslim superstition,” Pshing said. “If he remains imprisoned, they are liable to stop at nothing in their efforts to free him.”

“I am painfully aware of this,” Atvar said. “We have, to our sorrow, seen too many such efforts-and too many of them have succeeded. I have made matters more difficult for the Big Uglies by ordering Khomeini transferred to a prison in the southern region of the lesser continental mass. The Big Uglies there speak a different language and follow the Christian superstition, so his influence among them should be much less than it would were we to have kept him incarcerated locally.”

“This also shows considerable understanding of Tosevite psychology,” his adjutant remarked.

“So it does, but I cannot take full credit for it,” Atvar said. “Moishe Russie suggested it to me. This Khomeini is almost as antithetical to the Big Uglies of the Jewish superstition as he is to us, so, as against the Deutsche, Russie was able to make the suggestion in good conscience.”

“Excellent,” Pshing said. “We do our best when we can turn the Tosevites’ differences among themselves to our advantage.”

“The only trouble being, too often they abandon those differences to unite against us,” Atvar said. “They might even do that in the case of Khomeini, which is the main reason why I am considering ordering his execution.”

Both of Pshing’s eye turrets swung sharply toward him. “Exalted Fleetlord?” he said, as if wondering whether he’d heard correctly.

Atvar understood that. The Race had not used capital punishment since long before Home was unified. But he said, “This is a barbarous world, and ruling it-or ruling our portion of it-requires barbarous measures. During the fighting, did we not match the Big Uglies city for city with explosive-metal bombs?”

“But that was during the fighting,” Pshing answered.

“So it was,” Atvar agreed. “But the fighting on Tosev 3 has never truly stopped; it has only slowed.” He sighed. “Unless it comes to a boil again and destroys this world, it is liable to continue at this low level for generations to come. If we do not adopt our methods to the ones widely used and understood here, we will suffer more as a result.”

“But what shall we become if we do adapt our methods to those the Big Uglies use and understand?” Pshing asked.

“Barbarized.” Atvar did not flinch from the answer. “Different from the males and females on the other worlds of the Empire. Ginger contributes to such differences, too, as we know all too well.” He sighed once more. “Perhaps, over hundreds and over thousands of years, we will become more like those we have left behind.” After a moment, he sighed yet again, even less happily. “And perhaps not, too.”

The frontier between Lizard-occupied Poland and the Greater German Reich was less than a hundred kilometers west of Lodz. Mordechai Anielewicz used bicycle trips to the frontier region to keep himself strong-and to keep an eye on what the Nazis might be up to.

As he neared the border, he swung off the bicycle to rest and to try to rub the stiffness out of his legs. He wasn’t too sore; the poison gas he’d breathed all those years before sometimes dug its claws into him much harder than this. It was hot, but not too muggy; sweat didn’t cling as it might have on a lot of summer days. He stood on top of a small hill, from which he could peer west into Germany.

Even with field glasses, which he didn’t have, he couldn’t have seen a great deal. No tanks rumbled toward the border from the west, as they had in 1939. The only visible German soldiers were a couple of sentries pacing their routes. One of them was smoking a cigarette; a plume of smoke drifted after him.

In a way, the calm was reassuring: the Wehrmacht didn’t look ready to come charging toward Lodz. In another way, though, this land was war’s home. It was low and flat and green-ideal country for panzers. In front of the smoking sentry lay barbed wire thicker than either side had put down in the First World War. Concrete antitank obstacles stood among the thickets of barbed wire like great gray teeth. More of them farther from the frontier worked to channel armored fighting vehicles to a handful of routes, at which the German troops no doubt had heavy weapons aimed.

This side of the frontier, the Polish side, was less ostentatiously fortified. The Nazis went in for large, intimidating displays; the Race didn’t. More of the Lizards’ installations were camouflaged or underground. But Mordechai knew how the Race could fight, and also knew both the Poles and the Jews would fight at the Lizards’ side to keep the Reich from returning to Poland.

He raised his eyes and looked farther west, past the immediate border region. Mist and distance blocked his gaze. He wouldn’t have been able to see the German rockets aimed at Poland anyhow-rockets tipped with explosive-metal bombs. The Jews and Poles couldn’t do anything about them. Anielewicz hoped the Lizards could, either by knocking down the German rockets or by sending so many into the Reich as to leave it a lifeless wasteland.

With such gloomy thoughts in his mind, he didn’t hear the mechanized combat vehicle coming up behind him till it got very close. It was much quieter than a human-made machine of the same type would have been; the Lizards had had not a couple of decades but tens of thousands of years to refine their designs. They were splendid engineers. An engineering student himself back in the days before the world went mad, Anielewicz understood that. But they moved in little steps, not the great leaps people sometimes took.

The combat vehicle stopped at the top of the hill. A Lizard-an officer, by his body paint-got out and peered west as Mordechai had been doing. He had field glasses, of odd design by human standards but perfectly adapted to the shape of his head and to his eye turrets.

After lowering the binoculars, he turned one eye toward Anielewicz. “What are you doing here?” he asked in fair Polish.

“Looking at what the enemy may be up to-the same as you, I suspect,” Anielewicz answered in the language of the Race.

“If there is any trouble, we will defend Poland,” the Lizard said, also in his own language. “You need not concern yourself about it.”

Anielewicz laughed in the arrogant male’s face. The Lizard, plainly startled, drew back a pace. Anielewicz said, “We Tosevites fought alongside you to expel the Deutsche from this region.” They’d also helped the Germans against the Race in a nasty balancing act Mordechai hoped never to have to try again. Not mentioning that, he went on, “We will fight alongside you if the Deutsche attack now. If you do not understand that, you must be very new to the region.”

He almost laughed at the Lizard again. Had the male been a human being, he would have looked flabbergasted. The Race had less mobile features, but the way the officer held himself proclaimed his astonishment. He asked, “Who are you, to speak to me so?”

“My name is Mordechai Anielewicz,” Anielewicz answered, wondering if the Lizard was so new to Poland that that wouldn’t mean anything to him. But how could he be, if he spoke Polish?

And he wasn’t. “Ah, the Tosevite fighting leader!” he exclaimed. “No wonder you have an interest in the Deutsche, then.”

“No wonder at all,” Anielewicz agreed dryly. “What I do wonder about is your foolish insistence before that Tosevites were not fighters. I hope you know better. I hope your superiors know better.”

“I am sorry,” the Lizard said, a rare admission from his kind. Then he spoiled it: “I took you for an ordinary, lazy Big Ugly, not one of the less common sort.”

“Thank you so much,” Mordechai said. “Are you sure you are a male of the Race and not a male of the Deutsche?” Few Germans could have been more open in their scorn for Polish and Jewish Untermenschen — but the Lizard applied his scorn to the whole human race. Remember, he’s an ally, Anielewicz reminded himself.

“Of course I am sure,” the male said; whatever he was, he had no sense of humor and no sense of irony. “I am also sure that the Deutsche will not dare attack us, not after the warnings we have given them. You may take this to your fighters and tell them to rest easy.”

“There have been warnings, then?” Mordechai asked, and the Lizard made the affirmative hand gesture. That was news Anielewicz hadn’t heard before-and, as far as he was concerned, good news. He said, “The one thing I will tell you is that the Deutsche can be treacherous.”

“All Big Uglies can be treacherous,” the male answered. “We have learned this, to our sorrow, ever since the conquest fleet came to Tosev 3.”

To him, that obviously included Anielewicz. He had some reason for his suspicions, too: with luck, he didn’t know how much. Mordechai said, “We Jews will fight with the Race against the Deutsche.”

“I know this. This is good. You will fight harder against the Reich than you would against the SSSR,” the Lizard officer said. “But the Poles, while they will also fight for us against the Reich, might well fight harder against the SSSR. Is this not a truth? You will know your fellow Tosevites better than I can.”

“You know them well enough, or so it seems,” Anielewicz said-the Lizard had a good grasp of local politics. “Some of us reckon one side a worse enemy, some the other. We all have reasons we think good.”

“I know that.” The male let out a hiss of discontent. “This trying to deal with every tiny grouping of Tosevites as if it were an empire has addled a good many of us. It is but one way in which you are such a troublesome species.”

“I thank you,” Anielewicz said, straight-faced.

“You thank me?” After his interrogative cough, the Lizard spread his hands to show more perplexity. “I do not understand.”

“Never mind,” Mordechai said resignedly.

“Is it a joke?” No, the Lizard wasn’t able to tell. He went on, “If it is, I warn you to be careful. Otherwise, one day the joke will be on you.” Before Anielewicz could come up with an answer for that, the officer continued, “Since you are who you are, I suppose you have come to the border here to spy on the Deutsche.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.” Mordechai saw no point in denying the obvious. “You may tell your superiors that you met me here, and you may tell them that we Jews are in the highest state of readiness with all our weapons. We will resist the Deutsche with every means at our disposal-every means.”

As he’d intended, the male got his drift-this was indeed an alert, clever Lizard, even if one without a sense of humor. “Does that include explosive-metal weapons?” he asked.

“I hope both you and the Deutsche never have to find out,” Anielewicz answered. “You may tell that to your superiors, too.” After more than twenty years, he didn’t know whether the bomb the Nazis had meant for Lodz would work, either. He too hoped he would never have to find out.

Most Lizards would have kept on grilling him about the explosive-metal bomb. This one didn’t. Instead of pounding away at an area where he wouldn’t get any answers, he adroitly changed the subject. Pointing west, he asked, “Do you observe anything that, in your opinion, requires special vigilance on our part?”

“No,” Mordechai admitted, not altogether happily. He laughed at himself. “I am not altogether sure whether coming to the border was a waste of time, but I did it anyhow. Still, you of the Race can observe from high over the heads of the Deutsche.” He pointed up into space. “You can see far more than I could hope to from this little hill.”

“But if you saw something, you would be more likely to do so with full understanding,” the officer said. “We have been deceived before. No doubt we shall be deceived again and again, until such time as this world at last fully becomes part of the Empire.”

Just when Anielewicz began to think this Lizard did understand people after all, the male came out with something like that. “Do you really believe the Race will conquer the independent not-empires?”

“Yes,” the Lizard answered. “For you Tosevites, a few years seem a long time. Over hundreds of years, over thousands of years, we are bound to prevail.”

He spoke of the Race’s triumph with the certainty a Communist would have used to proclaim the victory of the proletariat or a Nazi the dominance of the Herrenvolk. Anielewicz said, “We may not think in the long terms as well as the Race does, but we also change more readily than the Race does. What will happen if, before hundreds or thousands of years pass, we go ahead of you?”

“You had better not,” the Lizard replied. “This is under discussion among us, and you had better not.”

He sounded as if he were warning Anielewicz in person. “Why not?” the Jewish fighting leader asked. “What will happen if we do?”

“The consensus among our leaders is, we will destroy this entire planet,” the male said matter-of-factly. “If you Tosevites are a danger to the Race here on Tosev 3, you are an annoyance-a large annoyance, but an annoyance nonetheless. If you seem likely to be able to trouble the other worlds of the Empire, you are no longer an annoyance. You are a danger, a deadly danger. We do not intend to let that happen.” He added an emphatic cough.

“What about your colonists?” Mordechai asked, ice running through him. Not even the Germans spoke so calmly of destruction.

He’d seen before that Lizards shrugged much as men did. “That would be most unfortunate. We might have done very well on this world. But the Empire as a whole is more important.”

Humans would have had a hard time thinking so dispassionately. Anielewicz stared after the officer, who got back into his vehicle. As it clattered off, Mordechai looked east after it, and then into the Reich once more. He shivered. He’d suddenly got a brand-new reason to worry about the Germans.

Gorppet bent into the posture of respect. “After so many years as a simple infantrymale, superior sir, I never expected to be promoted to officer’s rank.”

“You have earned it,” answered the officer sitting across the table from him. “By capturing Khomeini, you have earned not only the promotion, not only the stated reward, but almost anything else you desire.”

“For which I thank you, superior sir.” Gorppet knew he’d have a harder time collecting on the promise than the officer did making it. But he was going to try, anyhow. “I have served in this region of the main continental mass since what is called the end of the fighting, and I fought in the SSSR before that.”

“I know your record,” the officer-the other officer, Gorppet thought-said. “It does you credit.”

“And I thank you once more, superior sir.” As far as Gorppet was concerned, his record showed he remained alive and intact only by a miracle. “Having served in such hazardous posts, what I would like most of all is a transfer to an area where the conditions are less intense.”

“I understand why you say this, but could I not persuade you to ask for a different boon?” the officer said. I knew it, Gorppet thought. The other male went on, “Your experience makes you extremely valuable here. Without it, in fact, you would hardly have been able to recognize and capture the wily Khomeini.”

“No doubt that is a truth, superior sir, but I am beginning to feel I have used up about all the luck I ever had,” Gorppet answered. “You asked what I wanted. I told you. Are you telling me I may not have it?”

The officer sighed and waggled his eye turrets in a way that suggested Gorppet was asking for more than he had any right to expect. The newly promoted trooper held his ground. The officer sighed again. He had not expected Gorppet to request a transfer or to insist on getting it. Gorppet didn’t care what the officer had expected. He knew what he wanted. If he had a chance for it, he would grab with both hands.

With one more sigh, the officer turned his swiveling chair half away from Gorppet to use the computer. Gorppet turned his eye turrets toward the screen, but he was too far away and at too bad an angle to be able to read anything on it. And the officer did not speak to the machine, but used the keyboard. Gorppet’s suspicions rose. If the other male told him no posts elsewhere were available, he would raise as big a fuss as he could. He wished he’d been wise enough to record this conversation. He might well need the evidence to support his claims of promises denied.

But, at last, the officer turned back to him. “There is a position available in the extreme south of the main continental mass,” the male said unwillingly.

“I will take it, superior sir,” Gorppet said at once. “Get my acceptance into the computer, if you would be so kind.”

“Very well.” No, the officer did not sound happy. “How much do you know about this place called South Africa?” he asked as he clicked keys.

“Nothing whatsoever,” Gorppet answered cheerfully. “But I am sure it cannot possibly be worse than Basra and Baghdad.”

“The climate is worse,” the officer warned. “As far as climate goes, this is one of the best parts of Tosev 3.”

“No doubt you are right, superior sir,” Gorppet said-openly disagreeing with a superior did not do… and the other male was right. This area of Tosev 3 did have good weather. Still, Gorppet continued, “As far as the Big Uglies go, though, this is one of the worst parts of the planet. I have had more than enough of them.”

“I doubt you will find the Big Uglies in South Africa much of an improvement,” the officer said. “The ones with light skins hate and resent us for making the ones with dark skins, who outnumber them, their equals. The ones with the dark skins hate and resent us because we do not let them massacre the ones with the light skins.”

“I am willing to take my chances with them, dark and light,” Gorppet said. “As long as they are not so fanatical as to kill themselves so they can harm us, they are an improvement on the Tosevites hereabouts.” He pushed things a little: “I very much look forward to receiving my transfer orders.”

With a snorted hiss full of angry resignation, the officer turned back to the computer, although he kept one eye turret on Gorppet, as if afraid Gorppet would steal something if he gave the machine all his attention. After a little while, a sheet of paper came out of the printer by the computer. The officer thrust it at Gorppet. “There is a flight from Baghdad to Cairo tomorrow. You will be on it. There is a flight from Cairo to Cape Town the day after. You will be on it, too.”

Gorppet read the travel document to make sure it said what the officer told him it did. He’d stopped taking officers’ words on trust shortly after he started fighting in the SSSR. That was one of the reasons the spirits of Emperors past hadn’t yet greeted his spirit. These orders, however, read as they were supposed to.

“I thank you for your help, superior sir,” he said, though the officer had done everything he could to thwart him. “I will be on that flight tomorrow.”

“See that you are,” the other male said distantly, as if he were doing his best to forget Gorppet had ever stood before him. “I dismiss you.”

Gorppet went back to the barracks and packed his belongings. That wasn’t a hard job; everything he owned-except for his new and much improved credit balance-he could sling on his back. Just for a moment, he wondered if that was a fitting reward for having gone through so much danger. He shrugged. That wasn’t the sort of question a soldier’s training made him fit to answer.

He said his goodbyes to his squad. He would miss some of them, though not all: if he ever thought of Betvoss again, it would be with annoyance.

He was at the airfield long before his aircraft would leave. Nothing must go wrong, he thought, and nothing did. The flight took off on time, had little turbulence, and landed in Cairo on time. He got ground transport to a transient barracks to wait for his next flight. The Big Uglies on the streets of this city might have come from Baghdad. A couple of them, concealed by the crowd, threw stones at the vehicle in which Gorppet was riding.

“Does that happen very often?” he asked the driver.

“Only on days when the sun comes up in the morning,” the other male assured him. They both laughed, and spent the rest of the journey through the crowded streets swapping war stories.

More Big Uglies threw rocks at the vehicle that took Gorppet back to the Cairo airfield the next day. “You ought to teach them manners with your machine gun,” he told the male at the wheel of this machine.

“Orders are to hold our fire unless they start using firearms against us,” the driver answered with a resigned shrug. “If we started shooting at them for rocks, we would have riots every day.”

“Or else they might learn they are not supposed to do things like that,” Gorppet said. The driver shrugged again, and did not reply. Gorppet outranked him-now Gorppet outranked him-but he had to do as local authority told him to do.

No one fired at the vehicle. Gorppet carried his gear into the aircraft that would take him to this place called South Africa. He wondered what it would be like. Different from Baghdad was what he wanted. The officer back there had told him the Big Uglies in the new place were different. That was good, as far as he was concerned. The officer had also told him the weather was different. That wasn’t so good, but couldn’t be helped. After a winter in the SSSR, Gorppet doubted anything less would unduly faze him.

Peering out the window, he saw the aircraft pass over terrain desolate even by the standards of Home. Afterwards, though, endless lush green vegetation replaced the desert. Gorppet stared down at it in revolted fascination. It seemed almost malignant in the aggressiveness of its growth. Only a few scattered river valleys and seasides back on Home even came close to such fertility.

So much unrelieved green proved depressing. Gorppet fell asleep for a while. When he woke again, the jungle was behind him, replaced by savanna country that gave way in turn to desert once more. Then, to his surprise, more fertile country replaced the wasteland. The aircraft descended, landed, and came to a stop.

“Welcome to South Africa,” the pilot said over the intercom to Gorppet and to the males and females who’d traveled with him. “You had better get out. Nothing but sea after this, sea and the frozen continent around the South Pole.”

Gorppet shouldered his sack and went down the ramp black-skinned Big Uglies had wheeled over to the aircraft. He’d seen few of that race up till now. They looked different from the lighter Tosevites, but were no less ugly. When they spoke, he discovered he couldn’t understand anything they said. He sighed. Knowing what the Big Uglies back in Basra and Baghdad were talking about had helped keep him alive a couple of times. He would have to see how many languages the local Tosevites spoke and how hard they were to learn.

Sack still shouldered, he trudged toward the airfield terminal. The weather was on the chilly side; the officer back in Baghdad hadn’t lied about that. But Gorppet didn’t see any frozen water on the ground, and even the broad, flat mountain to the east of the airfield and the nearby city was free of the nasty stuff. It will not be too bad, he told himself, and hoped he was right.

In the terminal, as he’d expected, was a reassignment station. A female clerk turned one eye turret toward him. “How may I help you, Small-unit Group Leader?” she asked, reading his very new, very fresh body paint.

After giving his name and pay number, Gorppet continued, “Reporting as ordered. I need quarters and a duty assignment.”

“Let me see whether your name has gone all the way through the system,” the female said. She spoke to the computer and examined the screen. After a moment, she made the affirmative hand gesture. “Yes, we have you. You are assigned to Cape Town, as a matter of fact.”

“And where in this subregion is Cape Town?” Gorppet asked.

“This city here is Cape Town,” the clerk answered. “Did you not study the area to which you would be transferred?”

“Not very much,” Gorppet admitted. “I got the order a couple of days ago, and have spent my time since either traveling or staying in transit barracks.”

“No reason you could not have examined a terminal there,” the female clerk said primly. “I would have thought an officer would show more interest in the region to which he has been assigned.”

That took Gorppet by surprise. He wasn’t used to being an officer. He wasn’t used to thinking like an officer, either. As an infantrymale, he’d gone where he was ordered, and hadn’t worried about it past that. Fighting embarrassment, he spoke gruffly: “Well, I am here now. Let me have a printout of my billet and assignment.”

“It shall be done,” the clerk said, and handed him the paper.

He rapidly read the new orders. “City patrol, is it? I can do that. I have been doing it for a long time, and this is a relatively tranquil region.”

“Is it?” the clerk said, “If you are coming from worse, I sympathize with you.” She got very insulted when Gorppet laughed at her.

Ttomalss studied the report that had come up from the Moishe Russie Medical College. Based on our present knowledge of Tosevite physiology and of available immunizations, the physician named Shpaaka wrote, it seems possible, even probable, that the specimen may, after receiving the said immunizations, safely interact with wild Tosevites. Nothing in medicine, however, is so certain as it is in engineering.

With a discontented mutter, Ttomalss blanked the computer screen. He’d hoped for a definitive answer. If the males down at the medical college couldn’t give him one, where would he get it? Nowhere, was the obvious answer. He recognized that Shpaaka was doing the best he could. Psychological research was also less exact than engineering. That still left Ttomalss unhappy.

After more mutters, he telephoned Kassquit. “I greet you, superior sir,” she said. “How are you this morning?”

“I am well, thank you,” Ttomalss answered. “And yourself?”

“Very well,” she said. “And what is the occasion of this call?”

She undoubtedly knew. She could hardly help knowing. That she asked had to mean she was unhappy about proceeding. Even so, Ttomalss explained the news he’d got from the physician down on the surface of Tosev 3. He finished, “Are you willing to undergo this series of immunizations so you are physically able to meet with wild Big Uglies?”

“I do not know, superior sir,” Kassquit replied. “What are the effects of the immunizations likely to be on me?”

“I do not suppose there will be very many effects,” Ttomalss said. “Why should there be? There are no major effects to immunizations among the Race. I had most of mine in early hatchlinghood, and scarcely remember them.”

“I see.” Kassquit made the affirmative hand gesture to show she understood. But then she said, “Still, these would not be immunizations from the Race. They would be immunizations from the Big Uglies, for Tosevite diseases. The Big Uglies are less advanced than the Race in a great many areas, and I am certain medicine is one of them.”

“Well, no doubt that is a truth.” Ttomalss admitted what he could hardly deny. “Let me inquire of Shpaaka. When he gives me the answer, I shall relay it to you.” He broke the connection.

On telephoning the physician, he got a recorded message telling him Shpaaka had gone to teach and would return his call as soon as possible. His own computer had the same kind of programming, which didn’t make him any happier about being on the receiving end of it. Concealing annoyance over such things was part of good manners. He recorded his message and settled into some other work while waiting for Shpaaka to get back to him.

After what seemed forever but really wasn’t, the physician did call back. “I greet you, Senior Researcher,” Shpaaka said. “You asked an interesting question there.”

“I thank you, Senior Physician,” Ttomalss replied. “The question, however, does not come from me. It comes from my Tosevite ward, who is of course most intimately concerned with it.”

“I see. That certainly makes sense,” Shpaaka said. “I had to do some research of my own before I could give the answer: partly by asking Big Ugly students of their experience with immunizations, partly having some of them consult Tosevite medical texts so they could translate the data in those texts for me.”

“I thank you for your diligence,” Ttomalss said. “And what conclusions did you reach?”

“That Tosevite medicine, like so much on this planet, is primitive and sophisticated at the same time,” the physician told him. “The Big Uglies know how to stimulate the immune system to make it produce antibodies against various local diseases, but do so by brute force, without caring much about reducing symptoms from the immunizations. Some of them appear to be unpleasant, though none has any long-term consequences worthy of note.”

“I see,” Ttomalss repeated, not altogether happily. If the immunizations were likely to make Kassquit sick, would she want to go forward with them?

Shpaaka said, “I tell you this, Senior Researcher: finding your answer has been one of the more pleasant, enjoyable, and interesting things I have had to do lately.”

“Oh?” Ttomalss said, as he was plainly meant to do. “And why is that?”

“Because the medical college has been cast into turmoil, that is why,” the physician replied. “You may or may not know that some miserable individual who thought he was more clever than he really was devised the brilliant plan of making the Big Uglies pay for the privilege of exercising their superstitions, which has provoked disorder over wide stretches of Tosev 3.”

“Yes, I do recall that,” Ttomalss said in faintly strangled tones. Shpaaka’s sarcasm stung. Fortunately, the other male didn’t know he was talking to the originator of the plan he scorned.

“You do? Good,” Shpaaka said. “Well, someone then decided on the converse for the medical college: that no one who failed to give reverence to the spirits of Emperors past would be allowed to continue. What no one anticipated, however, was that many Big Uglies-including some of the most able students, and even including the hatchling of the Big Ugly for whom the medical college was named-would be so attached to their superstitions that they would withdraw instead of doing what we required of them.”

“That is unfortunate, both for them and for relations between the Race and their species,” Ttomalss said.

Shpaaka made the affirmative hand gesture. “It is also unfortunate for the Tosevites these half-trained individuals will eventually treat. They would have done far better by choosing to stay.”

Ttomalss hadn’t thought about infirm Big Uglies. He’d seen plenty in China-rather fewer in the Reich, where the standards of medicine, if not high, were higher. “Well, it cannot be helped,” he said after a brief pause.

“Oh, it could be,” Shpaaka said. “All we have to do is rescind the idiotic policy we are now following. But I do not expect that, and I shall not take up any more of your time advocating it. Good day to you.”

“Good day,” Ttomalss answered, but he was talking to a blank screen: the physician had already gone.

He thought about telephoning Kassquit with the news, but decided to wait and take a meal with her at the refectory so he could pass it along in person. Among the Race, males and females had a harder time saying no in person than they did over the telephone. Ttomalss idly wondered if the same held true among the Big Uglies-those of them who had telephones, that is. Eventually, the Race would get around to researching such things. He doubted the time would come while he remained alive, though.

At the next meal, he put Shpaaka’s opinion to Kassquit. “How do you feel about the notion of bodily discomfort?” he asked.

“I really do not know,” she answered. “I have known very little bodily discomfort in my life here. The notion of illness seems strange to me.”

“You are fortunate-far more fortunate than the Big Uglies down on the surface of Tosev 3,” Ttomalss said. “You have never been exposed to the microorganisms that cause disease among them, and those of the Race do not seem to find you appetizing.”

“If I were to meet with wild Big Uglies, I would need these immunizations, would I not?” Kassquit asked.

“I would strongly recommend that you have them, at any rate,” Ttomalss said. “I would not wish to see you fall ill as a result of such a meeting.” And I certainly would not wish you to die, not after l have put so much hard work into raising you up to this point.

Kassquit might have plucked that thought right out of his head. She said, “Yes, it would be inconvenient to you if I died in the middle of your research, would it not?” After a moment, she added, “It would also be most inconvenient to me.” She used an emphatic cough.

“Of course it would,” Ttomalss said uncomfortably. “If you do decide to meet with these wild Tosevites in person, you would be wise to receive these immunizations first.”

“You very much want me to meet with them, is that not so?” Without waiting for Ttomalss’ reply, Kassquit gave one herself: “It must be so. Why else would you have gone to all the trouble of raising me?” She sighed. “Well, if I am going to be an experimental animal, I had best be a good one. Is that not a truth, superior sir?” She waved a hand at the refectory full of males and females. “For all your efforts, and for all mine, I can never fully fit in here, can I?”

“Perhaps not fully, but as much as a Rabotev or a Hallessi.” Ttomalss spoke with care. As Kassquit reached maturity, so did her sense of judgment.

She proved that by making the negative hand gesture. “I believe you are mistaken, superior sir. From all I have been able to learn-and I have done my best to learn all I could, since the matter so urgently concerns me-the Hallessi and Rabotevs are far more like the Race than Tosevites are. Would you agree with that, or not?”

“I would have to agree,” Ttomalss said, wishing he could do anything but, yet knowing he would forfeit her confidence forever if he lied. “But I would also have to tell you that, when the day comes when all Tosevites are as acculturated to the ways of the Empire as you are now, the Race will have no difficulty in ruling this planet.”

“May it be so,” Kassquit said. “And you need me to help you make it so, is that not also a truth?”

“You know it is,” Ttomalss answered. “You have known it ever since you grew old enough to understand such things.”

Kassquit sighed again. “Truth, superior sir: I have known that. And the best way for me to make it so is for me to begin meeting with Big Uglies in person. You have wanted me to do so since my first telephone conversation with Sam Yeager, and you were surely planning such a thing even before the Big Ugly precipitated matters. Can you truthfully tell me I am mistaken?”

“No,” Ttomalss said. “I cannot tell you that. But I can tell you I have not tried to force you onto this course, and I shall not do so. If you do not wish it, it shall not be done.”

“For which I thank you-but it needs to be done, does it not?” Kassquit asked bleakly. Again, she did not wait for Ttomalss to reply, but answered her own question: “It does indeed need to be done. Very well, superior sir. I shall do it.”

There in the crowded refectory, Ttomalss rose from his seat and assumed the posture of respect before Kassquit. His Tosevite ward exclaimed in surprise. So did a good many males and females, who also stared and pointed. He didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, what he’d done was altogether appropriate. As he rose once more, he said, “I thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Kassquit answered. “You may give whatever orders are necessary to begin the immunization process.”

“I shall do that,” Ttomalss said. He’d almost answered, It shall be done. Kassquit was not his superior. Somehow, though, she’d made him feel as if she were. He wondered how she’d managed to do that.