Down to Earth

20

Back in South Africa, Gorppet had more ginger than he knew what to do with. When the Race uprooted him from the comfortable post he’d won as a reward for capturing the fanatic named Khomeini, he’d brought barely enough to Poland to keep himself happy for a little while. And most of what he had, he couldn’t taste. He’d learned during the last round of fighting that a male who tasted too often thought he was braver and smarter and more nearly invulnerable than he really was. He usually found out his mistake by finding himself dead.

Gorppet had learned all sorts of things during the fighting. That, of course, was why the Race had summoned him back to combat. He could have done without the honor. He’d already given the Big Uglies too many chances to kill or maim him. That was his view of the matter, anyhow. As far as his superiors were concerned, he was just one more munition, to be expended as necessary.

At the moment, he waited in a barn that smelled powerfully of Tosevite animals. A regiment leader was briefing him and a good many other lower-ranking officers: “We can expect this latest Deutsch thrust to exhaust itself before long. The Big Uglies’ ability to resupply is almost entirely destroyed.”

“Superior sir!” Gorppet signaled for attention.

“Yes? What is it, Small-Unit Group Leader?” the officer asked.

“Superior sir, did you ever run up against the Deutsche during the last round of fighting?” Gorppet asked.

“No,” the regimental leader admitted. “I served on the lesser continental mass then.”

“Well, then, superior sir, all I can tell you is, don’t count them out of anything till you see them all dead. And be careful even then-they may be shamming,” Gorppet said. “They are much tougher, male for male, than the Russkis or than any other kind of Big Ugly I can think of.”

“I assure you, I have been thoroughly informed as to their proclivities,” the regiment leader said. “I can also assure you that I know whereof I speak. We shall deal with them here in short order.”

He spoke as if he knew everything there was to know. He probably thought he did. That meant he either hadn’t seen hard fighting over on the lesser continental mass or had forgotten what it was like. Knowing he was wasting his time, Gorppet tried again: “The Deutsche, superior sir-”

“Are broken,” the regiment leader said firmly. “Let us have no further doubts on that score. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, superior sir.” Gorppet knew he sounded resigned and imperfectly subordinate, but had trouble caring. The regiment leader outranked him, but that didn’t mean the fellow kept his brains anywhere but his cloaca.

And then, to Gorppet’s astonishment, another male spoke up: “Superior sir, the small-unit group leader is right. As long as the Deutsche are in the field, they are dangerous. Underestimating them will do nothing but get good males killed to no purpose. I mean no disrespect when I say this, for it is a manifest truth.”

In a deadly voice, the regiment leader said, “Give me your name, Mid-Group Leader. Your statement will go on the record.”

“Very well, superior sir: I am Shazzer,” the other male replied. The regiment leader spoke into a computer hookup. There, all too probably, went Shazzer’s reputation and hope for advancement. They would surely be gone if the regiment leader turned out to be right. They were also likely doomed even if the regiment leader turned out to be wrong. The Race did not like those who disagreed with duly constituted authority. The regiment leader’s eye turrets swung toward Gorppet. “Give me your name, too, Small-Unit Group Leader.”

“Superior sir, I am Gorppet,” he answered. He’d never expected to become an officer. If he stopped being one, the eggshell of his world wouldn’t shatter.

“Gorppet,” the regiment leader repeated, this time into the computer hookup. Having finished that, he continued, “Now let us turn to the business at hand: wiping out the surviving remnants of the Deutsche.”

“It shall be done, superior sir,” the assembled officers chorused. Gorppet mouthed the words along with the rest, though they were bitter on his tongue. He longed for ginger to rid himself of their taste, but made himself hold back.

Out of the barn trooped the officers. Gorppet checked his radiation meter. This particular area wasn’t doing too badly; he didn’t need a breathing mask, let alone protective wrappings. The winds blowing the radioactive wreckage of the Reich to the east had been relatively kind here.

As the officers began to scatter and return to their units, Gorppet hurried over to Shazzer and said, “I thank you, superior sir, for what you tried to do in there. I fear you did not help yourself by doing it.”

Shazzer shrugged. “You spoke plain truth, Gorppet. Any male who has ever fought the Deutsche knows you spoke plain truth. Only pity is, we could not make that male see it.” He sounded not in the least concerned about what would happen to him.

Before Gorppet could say how much he admired that, aircraft streaked toward him out of the west. Concern about careers suddenly evaporated. “Those are Deutsch!” he shouted, and dove into a shell crater.

Shazzer dove in right behind him. Some of the other males were slower to take cover. Flames rippled under the wings of the enemy killercraft. “Rockets!” Shazzer screamed. He tried to scrabble deeper into the earth. Gorppet didn’t blame him. He was trying to do the same thing.

The killercraft wailed past and were gone. Gorppet stuck up his head and looked around for the regiment leader who’d said the Deutsche were at the end of their tether. He didn’t spot him. Maybe that meant the optimistic officer had found himself a hole in the ground, too. Maybe it meant he’d been blown to bits. Gorppet didn’t much care, one way or the other.

He didn’t keep his head up very long, either. Hisses in the air rose swiftly to shrieks. He shrieked, too: “Artillery!” He dove down into the crater once more.

He thought the shells that burst around him were of heavier caliber than most of the ones the Big Uglies had thrown during the last round of fighting. He cursed. The Race’s artillery remained essentially the same as it had been when Home was unified a hundred thousand years before. Why change? It did the job well enough. The Big Uglies, unfortunately, didn’t think that way.

Splinters whined overhead. The ground shook under Gorppet’s prostrate body, reminding him of the earthquakes he’d known when stationed in Basra and Baghdad. Shazzer said, “I think these are all explosive shells. The ones with gas in them sound different when they burst.”

“Praise the spirits of Emperors past for small favors,” Gorppet said. “I truly hate the masks we have to wear to protect ourselves against the gas.”

“And who does not?” the other veteran officer replied. “But I hate dying even more.”

“Truth,” Gorppet agreed.

If the Deutsche were short on ammunition, the bombardment they laid down gave no sign of it. Shells fell from the sky like rain. Shazzer said, “They are going to try to break through here. They would not be pounding us so hard if they were not.”

“How can they do that?” Gorppet said mockingly. “We have smashed them. They are completely destroyed. The regiment leader has said so.”

Shazzer laughed-it was either laugh or curse. “I do not think the regiment leader bothered informing the Deutsche of this fact-if it is a fact.”

“I wish I could get back to my small group,” Gorppet said. “They should have their commander with them.”

“You would not last long if you climbed out of this hole,” Shazzer said. “Have you never seen that, without its officers, a small group often fights about as well under the command of its underofficers? I would not say that to every male, but you do not strike me as the sort it would insult.”

“No, superior sir, it does not insult me,” Gorppet answered. “I have been an ordinary trooper and an underofficer myself. I never expected to be anything more. My opinion of officers is not far removed from yours.”

“Then trust your soldiers,” Shazzer said. “I think we may have to do some fighting of our own here.”

Sure enough, Big Uglies started falling back past the barn where the regiment leader had held his briefing. They were not Deutsche: they were the local Tosevites, as loyal to the Race as any Big Uglies were. But if they had to retreat, that meant the Deutsche were advancing. “I wish we had more landcruisers in the neighborhood,” Gorppet said fretfully, “more landcruisers and more antilandcruiser rockets.”

With a shrug, Shazzer answered, “The Deutsche previously concentrated their efforts farther south, in the direction of the city of Lodz-or what was the city of Lodz. Naturally, we concentrated our resources there, too.”

“Naturally,” Gorppet said bitterly. “And then the Big Uglies shifted their forces and did something we failed to anticipate. This has happened too many times.”

Before Shazzer could reply, a clanking rumble announced that the Deutsche had landcruisers in these parts, even if the Race didn’t. Gorppet stuck his head out of the hole again. The artillery barrage had moved on, and was now pounding positions farther east. Even if it hadn’t been, he needed to see what was going on. The greater the distance at which he and his comrades engaged the landcruisers, the better.

“We have to fight as a small group ourselves now,” he told Shazzer. The other male made the gesture of agreement.

And here came the landcruisers, three of them, much bigger and no doubt much more heavily armored than the ones the Big Uglies had used during the last round of fighting. A Tosevite stood up in the cupola of the closest one. Landcruiser commanders had a habit of doing that; it let them see much more than they could if they stayed buttoned up inside their machines and peered out through periscopes.

It also left them much more vulnerable. The Race had lost many fine landcruiser commanders-it was commonly the good ones who did stand up and look around-to Tosevite snipers. Now Gorppet did his best to redress the balance. He fired a quick burst from his rifle at the Big Ugly in the cupola. The Deutsch male toppled. “Got him!” Gorppet shouted.

But the rest of the landcruiser crew had spotted his muzzle flashes. The turret and the big gun it carried swung toward his hole. Before it could fire, though, a Tosevite leaped from cover, scrambled up onto the landcruiser, and threw something down through the open cupola into the turret. Flames and smoke rose. Escape hatches popped open. Big Uglies bailed out. Gorppet gleefully shot them. A moment later, the landcruiser blew up.

“One of those nasty bottles of burning hydrocarbon distillate,” Shazzer said. “Remember how they gave us fits?”

“I am not likely to forget,” Gorppet answered. “And I am not sorry to see them used against the Deutsche by Tosevites on our side.”

A second Deutsch landcruiser exploded, this one even more spectacularly-a hit from another landcruiser’s big gun. Gorppet shouted in glee. Before his shout was through, the third Tosevite landcruiser went up to flames. One of the Race’s machines rattled past the barn, heading west.

“Maybe the regiment leader was right after all,” Gorppet said. He turned his eye turrets this way and that. “Maybe he is even still alive to find out he was right after all-but I do not see him.” He shrugged. “I do not miss him very much, either. My guess is, we have a better chance against the Deutsche without him.”

Ever since the fighting stopped-in fact, since before the fighting stopped-Ttomalss had devoted himself to the exhausting task of raising a Tosevite hatchling. From all he’d gathered, the task of raising a Tosevite hatchling was difficult and exhausting even for the Big Uglies themselves. It was doubly-odds were, a lot more than doubly-difficult and exhausting for him, since he was the first male of the Race to try it. He had neither instincts nor accumulated wisdom upon which to fall back.

Years of patient work had made Kassquit into a female very nearly independent of him. He was grateful for that; it let him analyze some of the work he’d done with her so that others who came after him could do it better, and it also let him do some work unrelated to her. After so long without it, he’d rediscovered the joys of having time to himself again.

And now the war had broken out once more, confining him to the starship for the time being. That would have been annoying enough by itself, but there was worse. Because he’d raised Kassquit, he was also expected to take charge of Jonathan Yeager, the wild Big Ugly who’d been brought up to the starship to mate with her.

“This is most unfair,” he complained to the starship captain after receiving the order. “Most extremely unfair, superior sir. Wild Tosevites are only a secondary interest of mine. My main concern his been civilizing Big Uglies unspoiled by their own cultures. In that I have succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations. I cannot promise a result even remotely similar with this specimen.”

“Senior Researcher, it is a Big Ugly,” the captain said. “You have made a name for yourself as an expert on Big Uglies. If this one does not deal with you, with whom will it deal? With me? I thank you, but no. I have not the patience or the expertise to deal with it. The same holds true for my officers. You are the logical candidate for the job, and you will do it. That is an order, Senior Researcher. Do you understand me?”

“Only too well, superior sir,” Ttomalss replied with a sigh. “Very well. It shall be done. To the best of my ability, it shall be done.”

“It is not altogether wild,” the captain reminded him, softening his manner now that he’d got his way. “It speaks our language fairly well for a Tosevite, and it has some knowledge of our culture.”

“I placed greater hopes on such epiphenomena in former days than I do now,” Ttomalss said. “They are the eggshell. The egg within, I fear, remains profoundly alien.”

“You do not have to transform it into a female of the Race.”

“Male,” Ttomalss corrected.

With a shrug, the captain said, “Whichever. It could matter only to another Big Ugly. As I was trying to tell you, it does not have to become a male of the Race. All you have to do is keep it from getting under everyone else’s scales and making males and females itch while it is up here. Eventually, it will return to its not-empire, after all. Go on. Tend to it.”

“It shall be done,” Ttomalss repeated miserably, and left the captain’s office.

When he returned to his own chamber, he found Jonathan Yeager waiting in the hallway outside. The wild Big Ugly assumed the posture of respect and said, “I greet you, superior sir.”

“I greet you, Jonathan Yeager,” Ttomalss replied with no great warmth. “And what can I do for you today? Is it not something Kassquit could handle for you?” Several times, he had managed to use his Tosevite ward to keep this other Big Ugly from unduly bothering him.

But Jonathan Yeager shook his head in the Tosevite negative gesture, then remembered to shape his hand into the one the Race used. “No, superior sir, Kassquit cannot handle this. That is why I wanted to talk with you.”

“Very well,” Ttomalss said, as he had to the starship captain not long before. He opened the door. As it slid wide, he went on, “Come in and tell me what you require.” The sooner he dealt with the Big Ugly, the sooner he could return to his own concerns once more.

“I thank you,” Jonathan Yeager said. As he usually did, he wore wrappings around the area of his private parts. In a way, that marked him as a wild Big Ugly. In another way, though, it simplified his outline; his projecting reproductive organs were quite different from the unobtrusive ones Kassquit had. He sat down in the seat designed for Tosevite hindquarters that Ttomalss had installed in his office.

“What is it you want, then?” the psychological researcher asked. He was certain the Big Ugly wanted something.

And, sure enough, Jonathan Yeager said, “I would like to make an arrangement to get a gift for Kassquit, superior sir. I want it to be a surprise. That is why I cannot tell her, and why I had to come to you.”

“A gift?” Ttomalss was floundering. “What sort of gift?”

“Something to show I care for her,” the Tosevite replied. “I am not sure what sorts of things I can get for her here. That is another reason I came to you: to learn what is available in the way of such things.”

“A gift to show you care for her,” Ttomalss repeated. “Care for her in the alarmingly emotional way you Tosevites tend to care for your sexual partners? Is that what you mean?”

“Well… yes, superior sir,” the wild Big Ugly said. “It is a custom among us, for those who are fond of each other.”

Ttomalss remembered encountering the custom, now that the Big Ugly reminded him of it. He had never thought it would matter to him. More to the point, he had never thought it would matter to Kassquit. He asked, “If you were back in your own not-empire, what gift might you give a female for whom you had conceived such a foolish and violent fondness?”

“I might get her flowers, superior sir,” Jonathan Yeager answered.

“Why?” Ttomalss demanded. “What possible good are flowers?”

“They are pretty,” the Big Ugly replied. “And they smell sweet. Females like them.”

“This liking is bound to be cultural,” Ttomalss said. “Not having the proper conditioning, Kassquit is unlikely to share it. In any case, flowers are unlikely to be available. Are there other possibilities?”

“Yes,” Jonathan Yeager said. “I might get her… I do not know the word in your language, superior sir, but it would be used to make her smell sweet.”

“Perfume.” Ttomalss supplied the term. Then he said, “No,” and used an emphatic cough. “We are more sensitive to odors than you Big Uglies, and what you find pleasant is often unpleasant to us. Perfume would be altogether too public a gift. Try again, or else abandon this idea.”

He hoped Jonathan Yeager would abandon it, but the wild Tosevite said, “I might also get her sweet things to eat. This is a common sort of gift between males and females in my not-empire.”

“You should have mentioned it sooner,” Ttomalss told him. “It is something we might possibly be able to supply. Return to the quarters you share with Kassquit. When I have the sweet foods, I will summon you.”

“I thank you, superior sir,” Jonathan Yeager said. “You do not have the custom of giving gifts, I gather?”

“To a much smaller degree than you Big Uglies, certainly,” Ttomalss answered. “Among us, gifts are often slightly suspect. If someone gives me something, the first thing I wonder is what he wants in return.”

“They can be among us, too,” the Big Ugly said. “But they can also simply show affection, as I want to do here.”

“Affection.” Ttomalss spoke the word with amused contempt All too often, Tosevites used it when they meant nothing but sexual attraction. “You are dismissed, Jonathan Yeager. I will try to get these sweets for you-and for Kassquit.” He had a genuine disinterested affection for the hatchling he’d raised, since he could not possibly want to mate with her. Like any male of the Race, he viewed decisions influenced by sexuality with the greatest of suspicion.

He did sometimes wonder whether he or Veffani had fathered Felless’ first brace of hatchlings when she’d come to them reeking of the pheromones ginger made females produce. He shrugged. If he had, he had. If not, not. Mating with Felless certainly made him feel no more affection for the difficult and cross-grained female.

But Big Uglies worked differently. He had seen that before, and saw it again with Kassquit and Jonathan Yeager. Their matings made them feel increased liking for each other; the video records made that quite plain. With the wild Big Ugly, such behavior might have been a cultural artifact. With Kassquit, it assuredly was not. But it was there nonetheless. Ttomalss sighed. He wished his ward’s behavior in this matter were less like those of the Tosevites who’d grown up in independent squalor.

Sighing again, he made a few calls to learn when and from where shuttlecraft from the surface of Tosev 3 were scheduled to reach the starship-assuming they survived Deutsch attack on the way up. But the Deutsche, these days, had few spaceships left in orbit around Tosev 3; the Race had done a good job of getting rid of them. Supply missions were almost routine again.

Sure enough, a shuttlecraft brought what he’d asked for. He summoned Jonathan Yeager and said, “Here are the sweets you requested.”

Instead of delight, the wild Big Ugly showed confusion. “I had expected what we call choklit,” he said slowly. “These look like balls of raiss.” A couple of words were in his own language. Ttomalss figured out what they were likely to mean.

He exhaled in some annoyance. “You asked for sweets. These are sweets. Moreover, they are sweets from the subregion of the main continental mass called China. This is the subregion from which Kassquit came.”

“May I try one first?” Jonathan Yeager still sounded dubious. Ttomalss made the affirmative gesture. The Tosevite plucked one of the balls out of the syrup in which it came, put it in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “It has sesamisidz inside,” he said.

“Is this good or bad?” Ttomalss asked.

Jonathan Yeager shrugged. “I do not think it is as good as choklit. But it is a sweet, and I thank you for it. I hope Kassquit will like it. I think she will.” He bent into the posture of respect-he did have manners, for a wild Tosevite-and took the container with the remaining sweets back to Kassquit’s chamber.

Ttomalss eyed the video that came from the chamber. He listened to Kassquit exclaim in surprise and pleasure, and watched her try the sweets. She must have liked them; she ate several, one after another.

“No one has ever cared for me as you care for me,” she told Jonathan Yeager. Before long, the two of them were mating again, though shielded from the possibility of reproduction.

Having seen that activity before, Ttomalss stopped watching the video feed. He hadn’t imagined that Kassquit’s words could hurt as much as they did. Who had fed her when she was helpless? Who had cleaned excrement from her skin? Who had taught her the language and the ways of the Race? Did a few sweets and pleasurable mating count for more than all that?

He let out a discontented hiss. He had not been the one to think of giving Kassquit an unexpected treat. Even so, it hardly seemed fair. He wondered if Tosevites ever so discounted the efforts of those of their own kind who raised them. It struck him as most unlikely. No, this case of ingratitude was surely unique.

I tried to get out, Monique Dutourd thought. I did everything I could. Is it my fault that I didn’t do it quite soon enough?

Whose fault it was didn’t matter. What mattered was that she remained stuck in Marseille. A passport, even a passport with a false name, did her no good whatever when she couldn’t go anywhere with it. She had two choices now, as she saw things: run for the hills or wait for explosive-metal fire to burst over her city, as it had over so many cities of the Greater German Reich.

To her surprise, Pierre and Lucie were sitting tight. “How can you stay?” she asked them one morning over breakfast-croissants and cafe au lait as usual, war having affected the black market very little. “The radio said the Lizards blew up Lyon yesterday. How long can they keep from blowing us up, too?”

“Quite a while, I hope,” Pierre answered placidly. “Pass the marmalade, if you would be so kind.”

Monique didn’t want to pass it; she wanted to throw it at him. “You are mad!” she cried. “We live on borrowed time, and you ask for marmalade?”

“Croissants are better with it,” he said. She shook with fury. Her brother laughed. “I do not think we are all going to explode in the next few minutes. Will you calm yourself and let me explain why?”

“You had better, before I get on my bicycle and head for the hills,” Monique said. “You were talking about doing that yourself, if you will remember?”

“I know.” Pierre nodded and paused to light a cigarette. He coughed a couple of times. “First one of the morning. Yes, I know I was talking about fleeing. You still may, if you feel you must. But I doubt it is necessary to flee from Marseille.”

“Why do you doubt it?” Monique bit off the words one by one.

“Why?” Pierre grinned at her and said no more.

“Enough teasing, Pierre.” Lucie could tell when Monique was on the ragged edge of cracking, where her own brother could not. Turning to Monique, she went on, “We have-which is to say, Marseille has-a good many friends in high places. From what we hear from them, the city is safe enough.”

“Friends where? Among the Germans?” Monique demanded. “They can’t keep any place in the whole blasted Reich safe.”

Her brother and his lover both burst out laughing. “Among the Germans?” he said. “No, not at all. By no means. I would not trust what a German told me if Christ came down from Heaven with a choir of angels to assure me it was so. But we have plenty of friends in high places among the Race, of that you may be very certain. They do not want to see such a fine place of business wiped off the face of the Earth-and so it will not be.”

Monique stared at him. “They will spare this city… for the sake of the ginger trade?” she said slowly. “I knew your connections with the Race were good. I never dreamt they were that good.” She wondered if Pierre was fooling himself.

But Lucie said, “Here we are, an obvious target close to Spain, a target close to Africa, but have they attacked us? No, not at all. Are they likely to attack us? I do not think so.”

“Well…” Monique hadn’t thought of it in those terms. Marseille was an obvious target. The Nazis knew it as well as the Lizards did; they wouldn’t have installed all those antiaircraft missiles in the hills outside the city if they hadn’t known it. But not even an enemy airplane had appeared over Marseille, let alone an enemy missile. Grudgingly, Monique said, “It could be, I suppose.”

“So far, it is,” Pierre said. “I see no reason to believe the future will be very much different from the past.”

That almost set Monique laughing, where nothing else had come close to doing the job. It was a very Roman attitude. It was, from everything she’d seen, also very much the attitude of the Race. But it wasn’t the attitude of the Reich, and it didn’t work so well for the Lizards here. That worried her.

Pierre wasn’t worried. After stubbing out the cigarette, he said, “Go on, Monique. Go shopping. Spend my money on whatever you want. After the Lizards finish the Nazis, they will still need people to buy and sell for them. We will be waiting. And if the Germans come back in another twenty years”-he shrugged-“they will need people to buy and sell for them, too. And we will still be waiting.”

That wasn’t a classical Roman attitude, but she had no doubt the inhabitants of ancient Massilia had shared it. And they would have had reason to do so. But not even Caesar’s sack of the ancient city would have wrecked it anywhere near so thoroughly as one explosive-metal bomb could. Monique wasn’t sure how well Pierre understood that.

She found another question to ask her brother: “How long can you hold out if the Lizards don’t come into Marseille to buy what you have to sell?”

He chuckled again. “Oh, twenty or thirty years, I would say. They make me extra money. I don’t deny that. But I do most of my business with people, anyhow. I can go right on doing that. Whether there is a war or not, plenty of things come into the Old Port. There aren’t enough Germans in the world to look through all the little boats that sail in from Spain and from Italy and from Greece and from Turkey.”

“Ah, Turkey,” Lucie said rapturously. “The business we do with Turkey, all by itself, could keep us afloat.”

“Poppies, I suppose,” Monique said, and her brother and his lover nodded. Monique had visions of opium dens and other sinister things. She didn’t know any details. She didn’t want to know any details. She shook her head. “Sordid.”

“It could be.” Pierre shrugged. “In fact, I suppose it is. You do not see Lucie or me using these things, do you? But there is a great deal of money to be had, from the Lizards and from the Nazis and from-” He broke off.

From the French, he’d been about to say. Monique knew it. Her brother wasn’t too proud to take his profits wherever he could find them. And she’d been living off his largesse ever since escaping Dieter Kuhn. She hadn’t thought till now about how filthy the bargain was. Maybe she hadn’t let herself think about it.

She took a deep breath, getting ready to tell him in great detail what she thought of him for doing what he did. Before she could speak, though, sirens all through Marseille started to scream. She sprang to her feet. “That is the attack warning!”

“It can’t be!” Pierre and Lucie said it together. But it was. The way they leaped up from their seats, the sudden horrid fear on their faces, said they knew it was, too.

Monique wasted no time arguing with them. “To the shelter, and pray God we aren’t too late.” With that, she was out the door and rushing down the stairs. Her brother and Lucie didn’t argue with her, either. They followed.

“How soon?” Lucie moaned. Even terrified, she sounded sexy. Monique wondered if that was worth admiring. But she also wondered, much more, about the question. If the Lizards had launched a missile from Spain, it would be in before she got to the basement of the block of flats, and that would be that. If it came from farther away, she had more time-but not much.

Down, down, down. The sirens kept screaming. Monique felt like screaming, too. Farther behind her, people with slower reactions were screaming, screaming with the dreadful fear that they might be too late, too late. She knew that fear. She clamped down on it till she tasted blood and realized she was also clamping down on the inside of her lower lip.

And there was the door to the cellar. “Merci, mon cher Dieu,” she gasped as she rushed inside: the most sincere prayer she’d sent up in many years. Oh, she’d wished Dieter Kuhn dead, but wishing that turned out to be far more pallid than wishing that she herself should stay alive.

Pierre and Lucie came in right behind her. Pierre started to slam the door, but a big, burly man almost trampled him. Monique grabbed her brother. Cursing, he said, “You’re going to kill us all.”

She had no good answer to that, not after her prayer of a moment before. The discovery that there were circumstances under which she would rather not stay alive was as astonishing as the discovery of how much she wanted to live.

More people crowded into the shelter. And then came a roar like the end of the world-just like the end of the world, Monique thought-and the lights went out. The ground shook, as if in an earthquake. It knocked Monique off her feet. She thought she was dead then.

Someone-maybe the burly man-did slam the door. After that, the darkness should have been complete, absolute, stygian. But it wasn’t, not quite. A light brighter than summer sunshine at its hottest showed all around the cracks between the door and its frame. Ever so slowly, it faded and reddened. Then it was black. Monique didn’t think the light itself had vanished quite so abruptly. She judged it much more likely that the block of flats had fallen down and cut off the view.

People-men and women both-were screaming about being buried alive. In the pitch blackness, Monique understood the fear, not least because she felt it herself. And then her brother flicked a flame from a cigarette lighter. “Ahh,” everyone in the shelter said together.

Pierre held up the lighter like a sacred talisman. “There will be candles,” he said in a voice of great certainty. “Hurry and find them.”

There were several boxes. They’d fallen off their shelf, but a woman brought one to him. He lit it and closed his lighter with a snap. The candle flame was pallid, but ever so much better than being stuck in the dark. Monique was still afraid, but much less than she had been.

Pierre went right on speaking with authority: “Now we wait. We wait as long as we have air and food and water-or, better, wine-and even this little light. The longer we wait, the safer it will be when we have to come out. I do not know if it will be safe-we will be taking a chance, of that there is no doubt-but it will be safer.”

From everything Monique knew about explosive-metal weapons, he was speaking the gospel truth. Even now, radiation would be entering the shelter, but she didn’t know what she could do about that. Or rather, she did know: nothing. She turned to-turned on-her brother and snarled, “No, they won’t bomb Marseille. You have friends in high places. You know these things.”

From the way the candlelight filled the lines of his face with shadow, he looked to have aged twenty years. He said, “I was wrong. Shall I tell you I was right? I have some hope. If we had been closer to where the bomb burst, we would already be dead.”

Out of the darkness where the candlelight didn’t reach, someone said, “Now we have to see whether radiation sickness kills us in the next day or two. If it doesn’t kill us, we have to see how many years it takes off our lives.”

“Shut up,” Monique said fiercely. She didn’t want to think about that; she wanted to remember she’d stayed alive so far. “We have to see how much there is to eat, and how much to drink, as my brother said. And we have to see how many buckets and pails we can find.” Her nose wrinkled. The shelter would be a nasty place before long. Something else occurred to her. “And we’ll need shovels and poles and picks, if there are any, to dig our way out when we can’t stay here any more. If there aren’t, we’ll have to do it with our bare hands.” If we can. She didn’t want to think about that, about being entombed here forever. And she didn’t want to think about what they would find when they did-if they did-dig themselves out. She stood there in the cellar, and stared and stared at the candle. With her classical training, the flickering flame put her in mind of her own life. But if the candle went out, they could light another. If she went out…

One more thing she didn’t want to think about.

Johannes Drucker had done everything he could with Hans-Ulrich’s Bus, but he wasn’t going to be able to stay in space much longer. He’d managed to make the air purifier go a lot further than it was designed to, but he’d be eating his underwear before too long-though by now, after four mortal weeks, it was far too filthy to be appetizing.

He knew why he was still alive, when most if not all of his comrades up here had died: he’d never got orders to attack the Lizards. After a while, the Reich had stopped ordering him to land. But no one down on the ground had included him in the assault on the Race. Maybe the powers that be had thought him too unreliable to be trusted in the fight. Maybe, too, they’d just forgotten about him by now. He wasn’t sure who, if anybody, was in charge down on the ground these days.

Maybe I should have done what I could to hurt the Lizards, even without orders, he thought, for about the five hundredth time. But the war was madness. As far as he was concerned, Poland wasn’t worth having. He’d fought there, and did not hold the place in high esteem. But Himmler and then Kaltenbrunner had thought otherwise, and the new Fuhrer threw the Wehrmacht over the border, as Hitler had in 1939.

“We did better then,” Drucker muttered. The Poles hadn’t been able to fight worth a damn, no matter how brave they were. The Race, on the other hand…

The Race, he realized, had decided to use the Reich ’s attack as an excuse to smash Germany. The Lizards had warned they would do just that, but nobody in authority seemed to have listened to them. They hadn’t been kidding.

“German upper stage!” The radio crackled to life-in English. “Anybody home in there, German upper stage? Over.”

“Am I an idiot, that I’m going to answer you?” Drucker asked. He’d maintained radio silence ever since the slugging started. If he started transmitting, the Lizards would get a fix on him and blow him out of the sky. He’d known Americans were naive, but this struck him as excessive.

“German upper stage! German upper stage! If you’re alive in there, you might as well give up,” the American flier said. “What’s the point to you ending up dead, and maybe more Lizards, too? You aren’t going to win the war all by yourself.” Silence for a few seconds, then, “Over and out.”

Silence returned. Drucker grimaced. He scratched his chin. He’d grown quite a beard this past month. The American made good sense, in a way-but only in a way. As a soldier, he was supposed to strike at the enemy, wasn’t he?

Then why haven’t you? He pondered that, as he had so often before. He came up with the same answers he had before, too: “Nobody gave me any orders. And it’s a goddamn stupid war, too.”

He glanced down toward the Earth. He was approaching Europe, though clouds hid much of the continent. Even if they hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to see much. From 350 kilometers up, even massive devastation was invisible. But he’d seen bombs blazing like suns as they burst at night. And he knew there had been many more he hadn’t seen.

Every time he passed above the wreckage of the Reich, he wondered if he would get orders at last, though by now he’d almost given up on it. If he did get them, this would be the place-the only place. The Lizards had knocked out all the German relay ships. It had taken them a while: longer than it should have, even if the delay worked to the Reich ’s advantage. They never had paid as much attention to the seas as they should have. But they’d finally got round to it.

Did the Reich have any working radars these days? If not, his superiors wouldn’t even know he was up here. Of course, all his superiors might well be dead. His family all too likely was. He’d cried himself sick about that the day the missiles started flying. He blamed Kaltenbrunner much more than the Lizards. The Race had been content with the status quo. The Fuhrer hadn’t.

“He should have been, damn him,” Drucker said. He’d cursed himself sick that first day, too.

A burst of static came from the radio. “Spacecraft of the Greater German Reich! All spacecraft of the Greater German Reich! The fight for justice in Europe continues,” a voice said in clear German. “Punish the Lizard aggressors however and wherever you may. Your sacrifice will not be in vain!”

When the message finished, it began repeating. As far as Drucker could tell, it was identical the second time around. A recording? He wouldn’t have been surprised. Was anyone alive down there to give orders to the remaining German spacecraft? Could anybody down there be alive at all?

Millions, tens of millions, of people down there were surely dead. But what about the high command? He had to admit that he wasn’t sure. Party and military leadership had known for a long time that a war with the Race might be coming. They would have done everything they could to make sure they could go on fighting it.

In the middle of the recorded message’s third repetition, it suddenly broke off. A different voice came on the air, one that sounded both military and tired unto death: “Be it known that all charges against Lieutenant Colonel Johannes Drucker are rescinded and that he is raised in grade to colonel. By order of Walter Dornberger, acting Fuhrer of the Greater German Reich.”

Drucker stared at the radio receiver. His boss at Peenemunde was running whatever was left of the Reich? How had that happened? When had it happened? Why hadn’t Dornberger started broadcasting sooner?

And, even more to the point, if Dornberger was running the Reich, why in hell wasn’t he surrendering just as fast as he could? He’d thought the idea of war against the Race utter madness, as Drucker had. It had proved to be utter madness, too. Why wasn’t he giving up, then?

Did he think he could win? Had the Race refused to accept his surrender? Was he trying to prove he could still hurt the Lizards after they’d done their worst to Western and Central Europe?

Did any of that matter? Reluctantly, Drucker decided it didn’t. An order that included all German spacecraft certainly included him. And, he had to admit, Dornberger was a Fuhrer he could respect. If he was going to go out, he would go out in a blaze of glory.

For the first time in quite a while, he looked out through the canopy with a view to sizing up targets. The points of light that moved against the stars were in Earth orbit, as he was. Some of them, the bright ones, shone more brilliant than Venus. Those would be the starships of the conquest and colonization fleets, the ships the Lizards couldn’t afford to lose.

He chose one by eye. They’d always orbited higher than upper stages usually did, and had moved higher still after the war with the Reich broke out. He could have fired up his radar to see exactly how far they’d moved, but he would have been shouting Here I am! if he did. Instead, he eyeballed a starship out ahead of him. If he could get close before turning on the radar and launching his missiles…

His calculations were automatic, instinctive, like a fighter pilot’s. If it was at that altitude, it was moving about so fast, which meant he’d need a burn of about so long to take himself out of his present orbit and put him into firing position. If the Lizards were alert and blasted him into wreckage before he could launch, they’d win. If they weren’t… He sighed. If they weren’t, they’d blow him into wreckage after he launched.

Soldiers, unfortunately, found themselves in such positions now and again. His finger poked the button that started his engine. The acceleration wasn’t enormous, but he hadn’t felt any acceleration at all for most of a month. Any at all made him seem to weigh five hundred kilos.

He used his fuel lavishly. It wasn’t as if he’d be coming back. The starship he’d chosen as a target grew brighter and brighter, then started showing a visible disk. Drucker knew he’d be visible, too, on every Lizard radar screen in the neighborhood. That starship couldn’t run away, not as massive as it was. They would need to interpose, or to come at him from some other direction, before he got close enough to do what he’d set out to do.

Now he did light up his radar. It showed the starship dead ahead, with just about the range and velocity he’d guessed. “I have good eyeballs,” he said with a chuckle. If he was going to go out, he’d go out laughing-and as a colonel, no less.

And he thought he would take the starship with him. The Lizards never had been good at reacting to the unexpected. None of their missiles headed his way. None of their spacecraft designed to fight in orbit-nastier creatures than Hans-Ulrich Bus — showed up on his screen. Somewhere on their starships, they were probably yelling back and forth at one another, trying to figure out what the devil to do. He didn’t need to figure. He was already doing.

No, here came one of their spacecraft, under what looked like pretty good acceleration. But it was late, late. He used the attitude jets to align the nose of Hans-Ulrich Bus on the starship. And then his thumb and forefinger found the red switch he’d never thought he would use. He pulled it out and activated it, then flipped it first to the left, then to the right.

His upper stage shuddered as the missiles left their tubes with puffs of compressed gas. When they were far enough from Hans-Ulrich Bus, their motors came on. The radars they carried guided them straight toward the Lizards’ starship, less than fifty kilometers away.

Drucker cursed horribly a moment later, for the Lizards aboard the starship weren’t asleep after all. Countermissiles leaped away no more than a heartbeat after he launched his. One of his blew up almost at once. The other, though-the other bored in on its target. “Come on,” Drucker whispered. “Come on!” The missiles, had proximity fuses set to detonate them a hundred meters from a ship’s skin. Would that one get through? All the countermissiles had missed it. If the Lizards didn’t do something nasty…

They did. Something sparkled along the starship’s centerline: a close-in weapon system, nothing more dramatic than a computerized heavy machine-gun battery-and the missile exploded in a fireball made up not of bursting atoms but of bursting fuel tanks. Over. It was all over. Drucker swung Hans-Ulrich’s Bus by the attitude jets so he could face the oncoming Lizard spacecraft. Without hope and without fear, he readied himself for his last fight.

“Deutsch upper stage!” That was a Lizard, speaking the language of the Race. “Surrender, Deutsch upper stage. You have no more missiles. You can do no more significant harm. Your not-empire is in ruins. What can you gain by further senseless sacrifice?”

That was a good question. The longer Drucker thought about it, the better it looked. He swung his thumb from the machine-gun trigger to the radio switch. “Male of the Race, I have no good answer for you,” he said wearily. “You have me. I do not know what you will do with me. At the moment, I do not much care what you will do with me. Whatever it is, you have me. I surrender.”

“What can I do for you today, Shiplord?” Straha’s driver asked.

“I cannot think of anything,” Straha answered. “If I need anything, you may be certain that I shall not be shy in letting you know.”

His driver bent into the posture of respect. It was half true subordination, half mockery. The Tosevite had at least as much power in their relationship as did Straha himself. “I have no doubt that you will. In the meantime, if it suits you, I will do some work on your motorcar.”

“Go ahead,” Straha told him. “You could just as easily take it to someone specializing in repairs, you know. Funds would appear to be adequate for any necessary expenditures.” Considering that the government of the not-empire of the United States paid for everything connected with Straha’s upkeep, funds were bound to be adequate.

But the driver said, “I enjoy working on machinery. I would rather do it myself. That way, I am sure it is done right.”

“Whatever pleases you,” Straha replied. Now that he thought about it, he shouldn’t even have tried to discourage the Big Ugly. With him out on the street tinkering with balky Tosevite machinery, Straha could come closer to living a normal, or at least an unspied-upon, life.

When Straha looked out the kitchen window a little later, he saw his driver bent over the engine compartment of the motorcar, happily repairing something or other. The ex-shiplord shrugged. He’d also known males and females of the Race who enjoyed messing about with machines. He had never understood the excitement himself-but then, most Big Uglies saw his gardening as a waste of time.

Straha hurried to his study and turned on the computer that connected him to the Race’s computer network. Since his connection was highly unofficial-even more so than Sam Yeager’s-he didn’t get very many electronic messages, but a synthesized voice announced that he had one today. It was, he noted without surprise, from Yeager, under his pseudonym of Maargyees.

I greet you, Shiplord, the Tosevite had written. I wonder if we could possibly meet without your driver ‘s knowing about it.

Perhaps, Straha replied. It may not be easy. Are you sure it is necessary? He wondered what the Tosevite had in mind. Something to do with one of the places into which Yeager had pushed his unwelcome snout, unless Straha missed his guess.

He also wondered if he would get an answer right away. The Tosevite had sent the message much earlier in the morning. But he stayed by the computer for a little while, on the off chance that Yeager was sitting in front of his, as he sometimes did.

And, sure enough, a reply came back quite quickly. Yes, I am sure it is necessary, Yeager wrote, and appended the conventional symbol for an emphatic cough. I must trust someone. In that particular mess, I would sooner trust you than any of my Tosevite acquaintances.

I am honored, Straha wrote back. But are you sure you would not be better served by one of your fellow Big Uglies?

I am sure of nothing, Yeager responded. I have done a great deal of thinking, but my way is not plain any more. I do not think my way will ever be plain again.

As you know, my driver clings to me as if he were a parasite under my scales, Straha wrote. I do not know if I can arrange to have him disappear. I also do not know if l should.

Well, you will do as you see fit, Yeager wrote back. If you decide to make the arrangement, let me know. In all fairness, I should tell you that seeing me about this business may be risky for you.

Are you yourself in danger now? Straha asked.

I have been in danger for some time, the Tosevite answered. Had I not been careful-and lucky-I would be dead. That is why I want to see you: if I die suddenly and mysteriously, I want you to avenge me.

That was stark enough. Many ancient classics from the Race’s literature and videos revolved around such themes. Straha hadn’t thought he would find himself caught in the middle of one, though. Something else occurred to him. He wrote, This may involve me in no small amount of danger, then. Is that not a truth?

Yes, Shiplord, Jam afraid that is a truth, and I am sorry for it, Yeager answered. He was honest; Straha had seen as much many times. If you do not wish to do it, I will understand, and I will look for someone else.

Not necessary, Straha wrote at once. Come here at midday tomorrow If you see the motorcar in front of the house, I will not have succeeded in getting my driver to go elsewhere. If it is gone, you are welcome. Actually, you will be welcome in any case, but you might well make the driver suspicious.

I understand. I thank you. It shall be done. Goodbye.

Goodbye, Straha wrote, but Yeager would probably get that message later. The ex-shiplord paused a while in thought. At last, he found an idea that satisfied him. In fact, he quite liked it. Had he been a Big Ugly, he would have used the curious grimace the Tosevites called smiling.

After a while, his driver came inside, greasy to the elbows and with a smile of his own on his face. He was indeed one of those individuals who enjoyed tinkering for the sake of tinkering. Straha asked, “Is everything now operating as it should?”

“Couldn’t be better,” the driver answered in English as he started cleaning himself off. His mind was plainly elsewhere, or he would have stuck to the language of the Race.

“Excellent.” Straha did stay with his own tongue. “I would like you to drive down to the Race’s consulate in the center of the city tomorrow for me, and to bring back a selection of new books and videos. The ones I have are growing stale.”

As he’d expected, that made the driver’s smile disappear. “Oh, very well,” the Big Ugly said at last. “I do not suppose you can go to the consulate yourself, not when you would be seized and spirited away if you tried. But I must tell you that I will also use the visit as an opportunity to brief my own superiors, who are based not far away.”

“If you must.” Straha sounded sulky. The driver was punishing him. His report would take some time, which meant he would be later bringing back the things Straha wanted. But Straha also wanted other things, things the driver didn’t know about. And to keep the Big Ugly from wondering if they might be there, the ex-shiplord had to act as if they weren’t.

Rubbing in the punishment, his driver went on, “I will not want to start until late morning, to escape the worst of the traffic.”

“Yes, think of your convenience first, and then of mine,” Straha complained, though he was laughing inside.

In fact, the Big Ugly waited so long to leave the next day that Straha feared he would still be there when Sam Yeager arrived. Straha couldn’t hurry him too much, either, not without rousing his suspicions. But he drove off not long before Yeager pulled up.

“I greet you,” Straha said, opening the door for his friend.

“And I greet you, Shiplord,” the Tosevite replied. “I also thank you from the bottom of my heart.” That was an English idiom translated literally into the language of the Race. “You are a true friend.”

“I feel the same about you,” Straha said truthfully. “Now, tell me of this trouble, and of how I can help you with it.” He led Yeager to the front room and got him comfortable on the sofa where his driver usually sat. “Can I bring you some alcohol? Some of that nasty bourbon you favor, perhaps?”

“That would be very good,” Yeager said. “But can we talk in your garden out back?”

He didn’t say why, but Straha had no trouble figuring out the answer: he feared things said inside the house might be recorded. Straha didn’t know if they were or not, but recognized they might be. He said, “Of course. Go on out. I will follow with your drink, and with one for me.”

His own drink was vodka without ice; like most members of the Race, he found whiskey of any sort vile. He carried the two glasses out to the backyard. For him, the weather was cool but not cold. Yeager, he judged, would find it ideal.

They sipped their glasses of alcohol, one flavored, one not. A hummingbird buzzed among the flowers, then flew off with startling speed. “Do you care to begin?” Straha asked.

“I wish I did not have to begin,” the Big Ugly answered. Straha realized, slower than he should have, that Yeager wasn’t wearing his usual uniform, but the wrappings a civilian would have chosen. What made the ex-shiplord notice was the Tosevite’s pulling a sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his upper outer wrapping-a jacket, that was the English word. He handed Straha the envelope, saying, “Keep this for me. Hide it. You will know when to open it.”

That Straha would; the envelope had TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH written on it, in both English and the language of the Race. The ex-shiplord kept one eye turret on it and turned the other toward Sam Yeager. “And what do I do with this if I should have to open it?”

“When you see what is inside, you will know,” Yeager said. “I trust you not to open it while I am still among those present.” That was another English idiom. “If I ever ask on the telephone to have it back, do not give it to me unless I say ‘it would help if you did.’ Unless I use that exact phrase, I am asking under duress. Then tell me it was accidentally destroyed, or lost, or something of the sort.”

“As you say, so shall it be. By the spirits of Emperors past, I swear it.” Straha cast down his eyes. Sam Yeager’s head bobbed up and down in the Tosevite gesture of agreement. Straha found another question: “What if I were to open it before anything happened to you?”

“One of the reasons I am giving it to you is that I trust you not to do that more than I trust any of my Big Ugly friends,” Yeager answered. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” Straha said firmly. He cast down his eyes again. “By the spirits of Emperors past, I swear that, too.” He paused and slyly waggled an eye turret a little. “How much trouble would I cause if I did?”

Yeager laughed. He relied on Straha not to mean that. But his own voice was serious as he replied, “More than you can imagine, Shiplord. Even if you multiply that imagination by ten, more than you can imagine.” He laughed again. “And that probably tempts you to open it more than anything else I have said.”

“As a matter of fact, it does,” Straha answered. What did Yeager have in the envelope he now held in his own scaly hand? Whatever it was, by the way he spoke it was even more important than his raising hatchlings of the Race as if they were Big Uglies. Straha wondered if it was some purely Tosevite affair or one also involving the Race He could find out. He could…

“As I said, I trust you,” Yeager told him.

“You may.” Straha meant it. “I shall hide this envelope and keep it safe and not open it, as you require.” He laughed. “But I shall go right on wondering what it holds.”

Sam Yeager nodded. “Fair enough.”

When the telephone rang, Vyacheslav Molotov feared it would be Marshal Zhukov. Ever since the Germans and the Lizards started fighting, Zhukov had called more often than Molotov really wanted to listen to him. The Soviet Union’s leading soldier assumed that war close to the border brought him to the fore, and Molotov was in no position to contradict him.

But Molotov’s secretary spoke in some excitement: “Comrade General Secretary, I have Paul Schmidt on the line.”

“The German ambassador, Pyotr Maksimovich?” Molotov said. “Put him through, by all means.” He waited, then spoke to Schmidt: “And what can I do for you today, your Excellency?”

“May I please see you as soon as I can reach the Kremlin?” Schmidt asked. “I would sooner not conduct my business over uncertainly secure wires.”

“By all means, come. I will see you,” Molotov replied. He wondered whether his wires were insecure, whether Zhukov was listening. Probably, he judged, but he called the marshal anyway as soon as he got off the phone with the German. Without preamble, he said, “Schmidt is on the way here.”

“Did he say what for?”

“No. He said he would tell me when he got here.”

“All right. Keep me apprised.” Zhukov hung up.

Molotov had cakes and rolls stuffed with spiced meat set out beside the samovar in the corner of the office where he went to wait for Schmidt. He had never had any use for the man’s Nazi bosses, but liked him as well as he liked anyone.

After the handshakes and polite greetings that followed the German ambassador’s arrival, Schmidt took tea and did eat one of the rolls. Molotov waited patiently. Schmidt blotted his lips on a linen napkin, then, grimacing, said, “Comrade General Secretary, I would like you to use your good offices to help the Greater German Reich end its hostilities with the Race.”

“Ah.” Molotov had thought it might be so. He wasn’t sure whether or not he’d hoped it might be so. He wouldn’t have been altogether sorry to see the Germans and the Lizards pound on each other a while longer. Maybe the Nazis couldn’t pound any more. Delicately, Molotov said, “You understand, this may involve negotiating a surrender.”

Schmidt nodded. “Yes, I do understand that. General Dornberger, who has assumed the Fuhrer ’s office, understands it as well.”

“I see.” From the briefings Molotov had had from the GRU, Dornberger was indeed a capable, sensible man. But the briefings didn’t explain everything. “How did General Dornberger survive the Race’s attack on Peenemunde?”

“We knew the Race would attack there, and fortified our shelters to stand up to the worst we thought they could do,” Schmidt replied. “There, our engineering proved adequate.” He bowed his head. Molotov wondered if he should have offered vodka along with the tea. Gathering himself, Schmidt went on, “But we did not realize the Lizards would strike so many hard and violent blows against the Reich.”

Molotov couldn’t imagine why the Nazi leaders hadn’t realized that. The Race had told them what would happen-told them in great detail. They’d chosen not to listen, and paid an enormous price for not listening. Now they had to settle accounts. Molotov didn’t bring that up. All he said was, “If you would care to wait, I will withdraw and call Queek. I have another office where the two of you can confer, and I will be glad to assist in any way I can.”

“Thank you,” Schmidt said. “I would be grateful for your assistance.”

As Molotov had expected, he had no trouble reaching Queek, or rather the Lizard’s interpreter. After the interpreter spoke to his principal, he returned to Russian to tell Molotov, “We shall be there directly. This war has done too much damage to both sides for it to continue.”

“I look forward to seeing the ambassador,” Molotov replied. He went back to the office where Schmidt waited. “Queek and his interpreter are on their way. Come with me; I will take you to a room where you and he can discuss the matter.”

“Why not this one?” the German ambassador asked.

“Security,” Molotov answered, one word for which no counter-argument existed in the Soviet Union.

Servants-not that the dictator of the proletariat thought of them as such-hastily brought refreshments to the office where Molotov met with Queek The ambassador from the Race and his interpreter arrived within fifteen minutes. After hypocritical expressions of personal esteem aimed at Paul Schmidt, Queek came to the point: “Is the Reich prepared to surrender without conditions?”

“Without conditions? No,” Schmidt answered. “We still have resources we can use to hurt you, and we are prepared to go on doing that at need.”

Queek rose from the chair that was suited to his posterior. “In that case, we have nothing to say to each other. Call me again when you come to your senses.”

“Wait,” Molotov said quickly. “You are here now. Why not listen to the conditions Schmidt proposes for surrender? They may be acceptable to you, or you may be able to negotiate with him until they become acceptable.”

Molotov had seen how hard the concept of negotiating with humans was for the Race to grasp. The interpreter and Queek had to go back and forth several times before the Lizard grudgingly made the hand gesture his kind used for a nod. “Let it be as you request,” he said. “I recognize that your government has broken no significant promises during this period of crisis.” It was faint praise, but Molotov took it Queek swung his eye turrets toward Schmidt and asked, “What conditions do you propose, then?”

“First, the Reich is to retain its political independence,” Schmidt said.

“Why should we grant you that?” the Lizard demanded.

“You have devastated our land, but you do not occupy it,” Schmidt replied. “In fighting on the ground, we have given at least as good as we’ve got.”

“So what?” Queek said. “We have found other ways to win the war, found them and used them. If you do not think we have won, why did you ask for this meeting?”

“It is hard to imagine you could do more to wreck the Reich than you have already done,” Schmidt said, fighting to salvage what he could with a skill Molotov had to admire. “But we still have land-based missiles unfired, and you have done next to nothing to our missile-carrying submarines. If you give us nothing, what have we got to lose by using all the explosive-metal bombs we have left against you?”

“This is a point worthy of consideration,” Molotov said to Queek. The Reich wasn’t going to be able to threaten his country for quite a while, and he didn’t want the Lizards hitting it with any more explosive-metal bombs, not when the wind had already blown too much fallout into the USSR.

But Queek said, “If, on the other fork of the tongue, we rule the Reich from now on, we will have no fear of any such attacks in the future.”

Molotov had to hide a grimace. Though it knew nothing of the dialectic, the Race did think in the long term. Before Molotov could say anything, Paul Schmidt did: “Do you have enough soldiers to garrison another land full of people who hate you? You have enough trouble holding down the mostly unindustrialized areas of the world that you rule. How hard would it be for you to occupy the Reich, too? How expensive would it be? And for how long would you have to do it?”

“Again, cogent points.” Molotov didn’t want to sound like Germany’s advocate, but he didn’t want the war to go on, either.

And Queek, this time, didn’t reject out of hand. Instead, he said, “If you retain independence, it will necessarily be limited. We will restrict your military forces, and we will place inspectors in your not-empire to make sure you do not seek to exceed by stealth the restrictions we set.”

“General Dornberger will accept such restrictions,” Schmidt said at once. “Germany has known them in the past.”

And Germany had got around them, too, Molotov knew. During the 1920s, there had been a good deal of clandestine cooperation between Germany and the Soviet Union, from which they’d both benefited. He wondered if the new Fuhrer would try to make history repeat itself. That would be harder this time, he guessed. England and France hadn’t had the will to make Germany live up to the restrictions of the Treaty of Versailles for very long. The Lizards had far more patience.

Then Queek proved the Race had been ready for this dicker after all, for he said, “If the Reich is to remain independent of the Race, then we shall also insist that the region of your not-empire known as France shall become independent-independent once more, I should say-of the Reich.”

Schmidt looked as if he’d bitten into an apple and found half a worm. Molotov said, “Under the circumstances, this does not strike me as an unreasonable request.”

“No, it wouldn’t, would it?” Schmidt muttered. A resuscitated France weakened Germany against the USSR as well as against the Race.

“It is not a request,” Queek said. “It is a demand. It is a minimum demand.”

Scowling still, Paul Schmidt said, “I believe the new Fuhrer will accept it.”

“Further,” Queek said, “the Reich will be prohibited from possessing explosive-metal weapons and missile delivery systems. The Reich will also be prohibited from flights into Earth orbit or to other regions of the solar system of Tosev 3.”

“You leave us very little,” Schmidt said bitterly.

“You deserve very little, after the damage you have done us,” replied the Race’s ambassador to the Soviet Union. “Many among us think we are overgenerous in allowing you anything at all. You may keep this reduced role, or you may fight on. After all of you are dead, occupying the Reich should not be difficult.”

Molotov added, “I do not know if the new Fuhrer of the Reich will listen to my views, but I think he would be wise to accept these terms. Do you believe he will get better ones if he goes on fighting?”

Schmidt could hardly have seemed more miserable. “If we do accept them, we go from a first-rate power to one of the second or third class.”

“And if you do not accept them, what will happen to you?” Queek retorted. “You will be altogether destroyed, and what sort of power will you retain after that? None. The Reich will become an empty eggshell, to be crushed underfoot.”

“I shall have to consult with General Dornberger before finally accepting these terms,” the German ambassador said.

“Consult quickly,” Queek warned. “Every instant you delay will lead to more damage to your not-empire, and may result in harsher terms.”

“May I use your facilities, Comrade General Secretary?” Schmidt asked.

“You may,” Molotov answered. “I hope success attends your efforts.” As Schmidt left, Molotov turned back to the Lizard and his interpreter. “Take more refreshments, if you care to.” Queek used the negative hand gesture. The Pole who translated for him ate as if food and drink would be proscribed tomorrow. He was not sorry to see Germany discomfited-no, not even a little.

After less than half an hour, Schmidt returned. He bowed to Queek. “He agrees. He agrees to everything. You have won this war.”

“We did not begin it,” Queek said.

“Let us be glad it is over,” Molotov put in. “Let us be glad it is over, and let us begin to rebuild.” And to plot against one another again, he added, but only to himself.