Bombs burst in Peking, shaking the ground. At the Central Committee meeting, Liu Han turned to Nieh Ho-T’ing and said, “We are making them work much harder this time.”
“Truth,” the People’s Liberation Army general answered in the language of the little scaly devils. He went back to Chinese: “Thanks to the missiles we got from the Soviet Union, they cannot use their landcruisers or their helicopters or even their aircraft so freely as they would like.”
Mao glanced across the table at them. “We have held Peking now since the uprising began. We hold a good many cities here in the north, and the countryside surrounding them.”
Nieh nodded. “From there to the Soviet border, the scaly devils appear only at great peril to their lives.”
“If Molotov wanted to, he could legitimately recognize us as the government of liberated China,” Mao said. “But will he do it?” He scowled and shook his head. “He does not dare, the dusty little worm, for fear of angering the little devils. Stalin was ten times the man he is. Stalin knew no fear.”
To Liu Han, Nieh murmured, “Anyone who isn’t afraid of the little scaly devils has tiles loose on his roof.”
“Well, of course,” she whispered back. “You know how Mao is. Molotov hasn’t given him everything he wanted, so of course he’s going to rant about it. He isn’t satisfied till things go exactly as he saw them in his mind.”
“That makes him a great leader,” Nieh said, to which she nodded. He added, “It can also make him very tiresome,” and Liu Han nodded again.
Mao took no notice of the byplay; Mao took as little notice as he could of anything that didn’t involve himself. He went right on talking. When Liu Han started paying attention to him again, he was saying, “-might be better off demanding recognition from the little scaly devils than from the Soviet Union.”
Heads bobbed up and down along the table. Chou En-Lai said, “I think there is some hope they may give this to us. We have shown them we are determined and we are not to be trifled with. If we send them an embassy, I think they will listen. They had better listen, or they’ll be sorry.”
“That’s right. That’s just right,” Mao said. Of course he thought anyone who agreed with him was right. He continued, “They’re already sorry. We can send them an embassy under flag of truce. If they heed us, well and good. If they don’t, we’re no worse off.” His forefinger shot out. “Comrade Liu Han! You have dickered with the scaly devils before, haven’t you?”
“Uh-yes, Comrade,” Liu Han said, taken aback.
“Good.” Mao beamed at her, his face round as the full moon. “That’s settled, then. We’ll send you through our line. You know what you are to demand of them.”
“Our independence, of course,” she answered.
“That’s right.” He nodded. “Yes, indeed. No more imperialists in our country. We’ve seen too many-first the round-eyed devils, then the Japanese, then the little scaly devils. No more, not if we’re strong enough to hold our own against them.”
“What if they refuse us that?” Liu Han asked.
“Then the fight goes on, of course,” Mao said.
But she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Comrade. What I meant was, what if they offer us something less than full independence but more than nothing? What if they offer us, say, some small area to rule on our own, or if they offer us some voice in affairs but not real freedom?”
“Refer such things back to me,” Mao told her. “They will be checking with their superiors, too. I have no doubt of that.”
“All right.” Liu Han nodded. What Mao said made good sense, though she wondered whether the little scaly devils would have anything at all to say to a representative of the People’s Liberation Army. She gave a mental shrug. The People’s Liberation Army would contact the imperialist oppressors. If they wanted to talk after that, they would.
She spent the next couple of days discussing possibilities with Mao and with Chou En-Lai. Then word came back that the little devils would treat with her. She got into a motorcar with a white flag tied to the radio aerial. The driver took her out of battered Peking and down to the scaly devils’ shuttlecraft port. Voice cheerful, he said, “This road is supposed to be cleared of mines.”
“If it isn’t, I’m going to be very unhappy with you,” Liu Han said, which made the fellow laugh.
A mechanized fighting vehicle like the one that had taken her out of the little scaly devils’ prison camp blocked the road. An amplified voice blared from it, in the scaly devils’ language and then in Chinese: “Let the negotiator come forward alone.”
Liu Han got out of the motorcar and walked to the fighting vehicle. Clamshell doors at the rear of the vehicle opened. She got in. Three little scaly devils glared at her. They all carried rifles. “I greet you,” she said in their language.
“We will take you to our negotiator,” one of them answered-no politeness, only business.
That was the last they said till the fighting vehicle halted a couple of hours later. Liu Han had no idea just where she was. Her surroundings when she left the vehicle did nothing to enlighten her. She found herself in the middle of one of the little devils’ encampments, full of drab tents.
A scaly devil was waiting for her. “You are the female Liu Han?” he asked, as if anyone else were likely to have emerged from the machine. When she admitted it, he said, “Come with me,” and led her to one of the tents.
“I am Relhost,” said the scaly devil waiting inside. “My rank is general. I greet you.”
“And I greet you,” Liu Han answered, returning courtesy for courtesy. She gave her own name, though he already knew it.
“You are not fond of us. We are not fond of you. These are obvious truths,” Relhost said. Liu Han nodded. The little devil made his kind’s gesture of agreement to show he knew what that meant. He continued, “Your side and mine have made agreements even so. Maybe we can do it again.”
“I hope so. That is why we asked to talk,” Liu Han said. “We have liberated a large stretch of China from your imperialistic grasp.”
Relhost’s shrug was amazingly like a man’s. “For the time being,” he said. He didn’t reckon imperialistic an insult; to him, it was more likely to be a compliment. “I expect we shall retake all the territory you have stolen from us.” He paused. One of his eye turrets swung toward a small portable stove in a corner of the tent, and to the aluminum pot bubbling on it. “Would you care for some tea?”
“No, thank you.” Liu Han shook her head. “I did not come here to drink tea. I came here to discuss the fight with you. I think you are wrong. I think we can keep what we have taken. I think we can take more.”
“It is usual, in a hard fight, for both sides to think they are winning,” Relhost observed. “One of them proves to be wrong. Here, I think-the Race thinks-you will prove to be wrong.”
“Plainly, we disagree about that,” Liu Han said. “We can hold. We will hold. And we can bleed you white.” That was how Liu Han thought of the phrase, anyhow; its literal meaning was, We can crack all your eggs.
“You have cost us a certain amount,” Relhost admitted, and then tempered that by adding, “but not so much as you think. And I am certain that we have hurt you a great deal more.”
That was true, gruesomely true. Liu Han had no intention whatsoever of admitting it. Instead, she said, “We can afford to lose far more than you can.” She also knew that was true; it was an underpinning of Mao’s strategy.
“What do you propose, then?” Relhost asked.
“An end to the fighting. You recognize our independence in the land we control now, and we promise not to try to gain any more,” Liu Han said.
“No. Absolutely not.” Relhost used the little scaly devils’ hand gesture that was the equivalent of a human headshake. “You spoke of cracking eggs. Your promises are not worth cracked eggshells. We have seen that too many times by now. We will not be fooled again.” He appended an emphatic cough.
Liu Han knew the People’s Liberation Army’s promise would be written on the wind, too. She wouldn’t admit that, either. She said, “We have shown we can take and rule broad stretches of territory. We do not hold others where we can still disrupt you. You might do better to give up this land. You cannot hold it.”
“We can. We shall.” The scaly devil used another emphatic cough. “You think we are not ready for a long fight. I am here to tell you that we will fight for as long as it proves necessary. If we yield here to you now, we would have to yield elsewhere to other Tosevites later. It would mean the ruination of the Empire on this world. That shall not be.”
You understand that you would lose face, Liu Han thought. You under-stand this one stone would start an avalanche. Very often, the little scaly devils were naive about the way people worked. Not here, worse luck. Here, they understood only too well. Liu Han wished they hadn’t. She said, “Another bargain may be possible.”
“I am listening,” Relhost answered.
“You have seen that we are going to be a power in the land for a long time to come,” Liu Han said. “Give us a share in ruling China. It is possible that you might control foreign affairs. But we can share in administering the land.”
But Relhost said, “No,” again. He said it with as little hesitation as he’d used before. He went on, “You want us to admit you have some legitimate right to be part of the government of China. We will never do that. This land is ours, and we intend to keep it.”
“Then the fight will go on,” Liu Han warned.
“Truth,” Relhost said. “The fight will go on. It will go on, and we will win it. You would do better to accept that now, and to live within the Empire. You could become valued partners in it.”
“Partners?” Liu Han asked sardonically. “Partners are equals. You have just said we cannot be equals.”
“Valued subjects, then.” Relhost sounded cross that she had pointed out the contradiction.
“We should not be subjects in our own land,” Liu Han said. “We will not be subjects in our own land. That is why the fight goes on. That is why it will go on.”
“We shall win it,” the little scaly devil said.
Maybe he was right. Liu Han still had faith in the historical dialectic, but less than she’d had when she was younger. And the scaly devils had their own ideology of historical inevitability to sustain them. They believed in what they were doing every bit as much as the People’s Liberation Army believed in its mission.
“I will send you back to your own side under safe-conduct,” said the little scaly devil who was a general. “The war will continue. We will never agree to your independence. We will never agree to your autonomy.”
“You will never defeat us.” Liu Han wondered, not for the first time, whether she would live long enough to find out if she was right.
Queek, the Race’s ambassador to the Soviet Union, was in a worse temper than usual. “Here, Comrade General Secretary,” he said to Vyacheslav Molotov through his Polish interpreter, who as usual seemed to be enjoying himself. “I insist that you examine these photographs.”
Molotov put on his reading glasses and looked at them. “I see a number of explosions,” he said. “So what?”
“This caravan was intercepted from the air just on the Chinese side of the border with the USSR,” Queek said. “These explosions you are generous enough to notice prove that it was carrying munitions-very large quantities of munitions.”
“So what?” Molotov repeated. “The Chinese are in rebellion against you. Why is it surprising that they should use large quantities of munitions?”
“By everything we have seen, the Chinese are incapable of manufacturing many of these munitions for themselves,” Queek said. “This leads us to the conclusion that the Soviet Union is supplying them.”
“You have no proof of that whatever,” Molotov said. “I deny it, as I have denied it whenever you have made that accusation.”
“These photographs prove-” the Lizard began.
“Nothing,” Molotov broke in. “If they were taken on the Chinese side-your side-of the border, they prove nothing about what my country is doing.”
“Where else would the bandits and rebels in China have come up with such advanced weapons?” the Lizards’ ambassador said. “They cannot make these weapons for themselves. The caravan carrying the weapons was intercepted near the USSR’s border. Do you seriously expect the Race to believe even for a moment that the Soviet Union had nothing to do with them?”
“Were any of these weapons of Soviet manufacture?” Molotov asked-a little apprehensively, because there was always the chance that the Red Army, in its zeal to arm the People’s Liberation Army, might have ignored his orders against such a blunder and added Soviet weapons to those obtained from the Reich.
But Queek said, “No. They were made by the Germans and Americans.”
Molotov was confident his relief didn’t show. Nothing showed unless he wanted it to, and he never wanted it to. And, as a matter of fact, the USSR hadn’t supplied the Chinese with many American weapons lately. Nice to know we really are innocent of something, he thought. It makes my protestations all the more convincing.
He said, “In that case, you would do better to talk with the Germans and Americans, don’t you think, instead of making these outrageous false charges against the peace-loving workers and peasants of the Soviet Union.”
“We do not necessarily view them as false,” Queek said. “The Race understands that it is far from impossible to obtain weapons from the nation that manufactured them, and then to pass them on to bandits who support your ideology.”
“On the basis of this presumption, you have made these provocative charges against the Soviet Union,” Molotov said. “In view of the unsettled state of the world this past year, do you not think you would be wise to avoid provocation?”
“Do you not think you would be wiser to keep from provoking us?” the Lizard returned.
“As I have repeatedly told you, I deny that we have done any such thing, and it is plain that you have no proof whatever of any guilt on our part,” Molotov said. Had the Race had any such proof, life would have grown more interesting than he really cared to deal with. He went on, “You might also inquire of the Japanese, who had their own imperialist ambitions in China before the Race came to Earth.”
“We are doing so,” Queek answered. “But they deny any part in supporting these bandits, who, as they accurately point out, are ideologically aligned with the USSR, not with Japan.”
“They might well support them anyhow, merely for the sake of giving you trouble,” Molotov answered. “Has this concept never occurred to you?”
“Before we came to Tosev 3, it probably would not have,” Queek said. “You Tosevites have taught us several interesting lessons on the uses of duplicity. If we are less trusting now than we were just after we arrived, you have only yourselves to blame.”
That, no doubt, held a lot of truth. But it had nothing to do with the business at hand. “You had proof against the Germans,” Molotov said, “the best proof of all: they attacked you. You had proof against the Americans, because of the defector. With proof, war becomes justified. To threaten war without proof is foolhardy. I insist that you convey my strongest possible protest to the fleetlord. I demand a formal apology from the Race for making these unfounded and unwarranted accusations against the Soviet Union. We have done nothing to deserve them.”
He sounded vehement, even passionate. Queek spoke in the Lizards’ language. The interpreter sounded downcast as he translated: “I shall convey your insistence and your demand to the fleetlord. I cannot predict how he will respond.”
An apology, of course, would cost Atvar nothing but pride. Sometimes that mattered very much to the Lizards. Sometimes it seemed not to matter at all. They were less predictable than people that way.
But then Queek went on, “It may be that we have no proof of the kind you describe, Comrade General Secretary. Regardless of your protests and your bluster, however, you must never forget that we do have a great deal of circumstantial evidence linking the USSR to these weapons. If the evidence ever becomes more than circumstantial, the Soviet Union will pay a heavy price-and it will be all the heavier to punish you for your deceit.”
“As you must know, the peace-loving workers and peasants of the Soviet Union are prepared to defend themselves against imperialist aggression from any enemies,” Molotov answered, once more suppressing a nasty stab of fear. “We taught both the Nazis and the Race as much a generation ago. Our means of defense now are more formidable than they were then. And, just as we were prepared to stand shoulder to shoulder with the United States, you may reasonably expect that the USA will also stand shoulder to shoulder with us.”
He had no idea whether the Lizards could reasonably expect any such thing. Harold Stassen would act in what he reckoned his nation’s self-interest, and Molotov had no good grip on that. He also had no notion whether Stassen would be reelected in 1968; political writers in the United States seemed dubious about his prospects. But Queek couldn’t readily disprove his claim.
And it seemed to rock the Lizard. It rocked him, in fact, a good deal more than Molotov had thought it would. Queek said, “You have told us to mind our own business in our dealings with you. Now I tell you to mind your own business in respect to our dealings with the United States. You would be wise to heed and obey.”
Well, well, Molotov thought. Yes, that was a more interesting response than he’d looked for. He wondered what had happened between the Lizards and the Americans to prompt it. No new crisis had come to the notice of the GRU or the NKVD. The NKVD, of course, was not what it had been. Damn Beria anyhow, Molotov thought, as he did whenever that unpalatable truth forced itself to his attention.
Aloud, he said, “I was not speaking of your dealings with the United States, but of my own country’s. I have no control over how you and the Americans deal between yourselves, any more than you have control over how we and the Americans deal between ourselves.” He yielded a little ground there, or seemed to, without committing himself to anything.
Queek said, “I have told you everything the fleetlord instructed me to convey. For your benefit, I shall repeat the gist: do not meddle in China, or you will regret it.”
“Since we have not meddled in China, I do not see why you are telling us not to do so,” Molotov replied. “You have never been able to prove otherwise.”
“You remain under very strong suspicion.” Queek got to his feet, and so did his interpreter. The Pole looked unhappy. He had come in hoping to see Molotov discomfited, but had not got what he wanted. Instead, his own principal was downcast while leaving. As Queek stalked toward the door, he added, “Sometimes strong enough suspicion is as good as truth.”
The Soviet Union ran on exactly the same principle. Nevertheless, Molotov affected outrage, snapping, “It had better not be. If you attack us on the basis of suspicion, a great many innocent human beings and members of the Race will die as a direct result of your error.”
He waited to see what Queek would say to that. The Lizard said nothing at all. He left the office, his interpreter trailing along like the running dog he was. When Molotov rose from his chair, sweat dripped from his armpits. He was good-perhaps better than any man alive-at simulating imperturbability. No one could gauge what he thought or whether he worried. But he knew. He knew all too well.
A crew of cleaners started vacuuming the office where he’d met with Queek and the hallway the Lizard and his interpreter had used coming to and going from that office. Molotov went back to the office he used for all business other than that involving the Race. Andrei Gromyko and Marshal Zhukov were sipping tea there.
“How did it go?” the foreign commissar asked.
“Well enough, Andrei Andreyevich,” Molotov answered. He savored the sound of the words, then nodded. “Yes, well enough. Perhaps even better than well enough. Queek came in full of accusations-”
“Groundless ones, of course,” Zhukov put in.
“Yes, of course, Georgi Konstantinovich,” Molotov agreed: despite the best Soviet security precautions, the Race might still be listening here. “As I say, he came in breathing fire, but I made him realize he had no proof whatever for his false claims, and that he had no business making threats without proof.”
“That’s good, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. That’s very good,” Zhukov said. “You do know your business, no two ways about it.”
“I am glad you think so,” Molotov said. If Zhukov didn’t think so, he would be out of a job and probably dead. He raised a forefinger. “One thing I noted: the Lizards are unusually concerned with the United States at the moment. Do you have any idea why, Comrade Marshal?”
“No, Comrade General Secretary.” Zhukov scribbled a note to himself. “I shall try to find out, though.”
“Good. By all means do so,” Molotov said, and Zhukov nodded in what was without a doubt obedience. Zhukov could unmake Molotov. The Red Army was, if he chose to wield it, the most powerful instrument in the USSR. But he seemed increasingly content to follow the lead of the Party and, especially, of its general secretary.
Molotov smiled, but only inside, where it didn’t show. He’d been through a lot. He was convinced he’d been through more than any one man deserved to suffer. But he’d prevailed so far, and now, against all odds, he thought he could bring the Red Army and its commander to heel again. He tapped a pencil a couple of times on his desk. I shall triumph yet, he thought. In spite of everything, I shall, and the Communist Party of the Soviet Union with me.
“You want to make the acquaintance of a Tosevite historian?” Felless said. “Why would you seek to meet such an individual?”
“I do not necessarily have to meet the Big Ugly,” Ttomalss replied. “But I would like to confer with a historian, yes. The Race faces many more difficulties in assimilating this world to the Empire than we anticipated.”
Felless let out a derisive hiss. “That has become painfully obvious.” It was so obvious, in fact, that she wondered why Ttomalss chose to belabor the point.
He proceeded to answer her. “Because of large differences in biology and relatively small differences in cultural sophistication, I think the Big Uglies will cling to their ways far more tenaciously than either the Rabotevs or Hallessi did. If you like, I can go into detail.”
“Please do,” Felless said, intrigued now: this was her specialty, too. And, when Ttomalss had finished, she found herself impressed almost against her will. “You make an interesting case,” she admitted. “But why do you seek a Tosevite historian?”
“I am interested in instances of acculturation and assimilation in the past on Tosev 3,” Ttomalss replied. “The more I understand about such matters from the perspective of the Big Uglies, the better my chances-the better the Race’s chances-of successfully planning for the full incorporation of this world into the Empire. And so… do you know, or know of, any Tosevite historians?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Felless answered. “I even know one who is in my debt.” She’d got Monique Dutourd a position, true. That she’d done so as a result of blackmail was something she kept to herself. She went on, “This Tosevite female’s one drawback is that she does not speak the language of the Race, but only Francais.”
“Language is often a problem in working with Big Uglies,” Ttomalss said. “I suspect you will be able to find me a translator. Please do get in touch with this historian, superior female, if you would be so kind.”
“Very well,” Felless said with poor grace; she wasn’t so sure she wanted to deal with the Big Ugly again. But duty was more important than anything, except possibly ginger. “It may take some little while. She is no longer in Marseille.”
Ttomalss made the affirmative gesture. “I understand. When you have the time, however, I would appreciate it.” He was so grateful and reasonable, Felless found no way to refuse him. That annoyed her, too.
Arranging a call to Tours wasn’t easy, especially since she needed an interpreter. She made sure she chose one who she knew tasted ginger. Dickering with the Tosevite was liable to involve topics that would horrify a prim and proper male or female: topics Ambassador Veffani, for instance, should never hear about. Even with a fellow taster, Felless knew she was taking a chance.
The call went through to Monique Dutourd’s university office, at a time when she was likely to be in. And, sure enough, she said, “Allo?” — the standard Francais telephone greeting.
“I greet you,” Felless said in return, and the interpreter translated her words into Francais. “Senior Researcher Felless here. Do you remember me?”
“Yes, very well.” The Big Ugly came straight to the point: “And what is it that you want with me?”
“Your expertise as a historian,” Felless answered.
“You are joking,” Monique Dutourd said. “Surely you must be joking.”
“Not at all,” Felless said. “A colleague of mine wishes to discuss Tosevite history with you. He is turning an eye turret toward analogies between the present situation with respect to the Race and you Tosevites and possible past situations in your history. I do not know if there are truly comparable situations. Neither does he. Would you be willing to explore this matter with him?”
“It could be,” the female Tosevite replied. “It could even be that it would be interesting. Is it that your colleague speaks Francais?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Felless said, thinking it wasn’t unfortunate at all, but only natural.
“What a pity,” Monique Dutourd said. “I do not speak your language, either. If we are to talk of the Romans, we shall need an interpreter, as you and I have here.”
As an aside, Felless asked the male who spoke Francais, “Who are these Romans?”
He shrugged. “Some Big Uglies or other, I suppose.” He would not be the ideal translator for Ttomalss; Felless could see that.
So could Monique Dutourd. She said, “It might be better if the interpreter were a Tosevite, someone who was himself at least somewhat familiar with the folk and events about which he was translating.”
“Yes, that does seem sensible,” Felless agreed. Monique Dutourd seemed intelligent-for a Big Ugly, Felless added to herself. She asked, “Do you have anyone in particular in mind to translate for you, then?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” the Tosevite female answered. Felless’ interpreter had to resort to circumlocution for a bit after that: “The Tosevite male she has in mind is the fellow hatchling of the male and female who engendered her. The Big Uglies can describe this relationship in one word, though we cannot. She assures me that he is fluent in our language-as fluent as a Tosevite can be.”
“Big Uglies stress kinship as we stress friendship,” Felless said, and the male with her made the affirmative gesture. She went on, “Ask her if she thinks this male Tosevite would be willing to do the work of translating, and what sort of pay both she and he would expect for working with Ttomalss.”
“I am sure Pierre would be willing,” Monique Dutourd replied. “There is a certain difficulty, however: the Race presently has him imprisoned for smuggling ginger. If you can do anything to get him released, I would be grateful.”
“I would not mind seeing Pierre Dutourd released myself,” Felless’ translator remarked. “I have bought a good deal of the herb from him, and it is harder to find now-not impossible, but harder.”
“Truth,” Felless said. “But can we get him released for this project?”
“I cannot,” the male said. “You may have better connections than I do.”
“Tell Monique Dutourd I will try to arrange her kinsmale’s release,” Felless said with more than a little trepidation. “Tell her I can guarantee nothing, for I am not sure how far my influence will reach. Ask her if she would consider discussing these matters with Ttomalss even if I cannot arrange this other Big Ugly’s release.”
She had no great hope for that. She knew only too well that the Tosevites took an affront against their kinsfolk as an affront against themselves. But, to her surprise, Monique Dutourd replied, “Yes, I would be willing, though I am grateful for your making the effort to help him.”
“I will do what I can,” Felless said, hoping the Tosevite female could not hear her relief. “I hope you will also seek other possible interpreters.”
“It shall be done,” the Big Ugly said in the language of the Race-that was one phrase a great many Tosevites knew, even if they knew no more.
After getting off the phone with Monique Dutourd, Felless thought hard about ignoring her promise. Having anything public to do with ginger was all too likely to get her in trouble with the Race’s authorities. But she wouldn’t have minded seeing Pierre Dutourd free, either.
And so, despite misgivings, she telephoned Ambassador Veffani. He was as suspicious as she’d known he would be. “You want to set that rogue free to cause trouble for the Race again?” he demanded. “How much ginger will he give you in exchange for this freedom?”
“I have not spoken with him at all, superior sir. How could I?” Felless tried to make herself the very image of righteousness. “His name was mentioned as a possible interpreter by a Tosevite historian whom I contacted at the request of Senior Researcher Ttomalss. You are welcome to confirm that with Ttomalss, if you like.”
“Believe me, I shall,” Veffani said. “How is it that a notorious ginger smuggler came up in a conversation with a Tosevite scholar? I find this hard to believe.”
“Find it however you please, superior sir,” Felless answered. “The scholar and the smuggler happen to share a mother and father. You know how Big Uglies are in matters relating to kinship.”
Veffani let out an unhappy hiss. “I do indeed. It is that sort of difficulty, is it? And I suppose the Tosevite scholar will have nothing to do with us unless we release the Tosevite criminal?”
Monique Dutourd hadn’t said anything of the sort. Felless didn’t care to lie outright to Veffani, but she did want to accomplish her own goals as well as Ttomalss’. “You know how Big Uglies are,” she repeated, and let the ambassador draw his own conclusions.
“So I do,” Veffani said with a sigh. “Well, perhaps we can arrange to release him long enough to do the necessary work and then return him to prison.” He caught himself before Felless could say anything. “No, the odds are it would not work. Let me speak with Ttomalss and find out just how important his work is. If he makes the request for this translator, I can release the Big Ugly with a better conscience.”
“I thank you, superior sir,” said Felless, who hadn’t expected to gain even that much from the ambassador.
“I am not nearly sure you are welcome,” Veffani answered. “As I say, I shall consult with Ttomalss. He has the respect and admiration of the fleetlord-and he has never been known to taste ginger.” He broke the connection.
Felless glared at the monitor. No, Ttomalss didn’t taste. That hadn’t kept him from mating with her when she tasted. Not tasting hadn’t kept Veffani from mating with her when she tasted, either. When females tasted, they would emit pheromones and males would mate with them. That, of course, was the problem with the herb.
She wondered how the two ginger-addicted members of the Race who’d sought an exclusive mating contract with each other were doing among the Tosevite barbarians of the United States. She didn’t approve of what they had done. Big Uglies were supposed to take on the customs and usages of the Race, not the other way round. No, she didn’t approve. But even so…
Ginger, she thought. Without the herb, the Race would have had a much easier time on Tosev 3. Easier, yes, but not nearly so enjoyable. The urge for a taste surged up within her. She tried to resist, but not very hard. And hadn’t that been the way she’d dealt with ginger ever since her first taste? She hurried to the desk, took out the vial, poured some of the powdered herb into her palm, and let her tongue dart out.
Delight shot through her. So did a feeling of brilliance, of omnipotence. She’d learned the hard way it was only a feeling, not reality. The first thing she had to do with that supposed brilliance was figure out a reason for staying here inside her chamber till she wasn’t emitting pheromones any more. If she failed there, she would have males mating with her-and she would have endless trouble from Ambassador Veffani.
She didn’t care. No, she did care-but not enough to keep her from tasting. Never enough to keep her from tasting. What could she do while she was stuck in here? Research Tosevite history, she thought. Why not? It has suddenly become relevant, and I can claim it is something I truly need to know. Who are, or were, these Romans, anyway? She began seeing what, if anything, the Race’s data stores could tell her.
When the telephone rang, Mordechai Anielewicz hoped it would be the landlord with whom he’d spoken a couple of days before. There was a sellers’ market for flats in Przemysl these days, as there was throughout Poland. But he did have hopes of moving into a bigger place, which he knew his family sorely needed. He hurried to the phone and answered with an eager, “Hello?”
But it wasn’t the landlord, who was a big, bluff fellow named Szymanski. Instead, he heard the hisses and pops of a Lizard’s voice: “Do I speak to Mordechai Anielewicz, the leader of those who follow the Jewish superstition in Poland?”
“You do,” Anielewicz replied in the language of the Race. “And may I ask to whom I speak now?” He had trouble telling one Lizard’s voice from another’s.
“You may indeed, Mordechai Anielewicz,” the Lizard replied. “I am Gorppet, whom you met outside Greifswald, and with whom you have spoken since. I greet you.”
“And I greet you,” Mordechai said. “This will have something to do with the missing explosive-metal bomb, unless I miss my guess.”
“Truth-it will,” Gorppet agreed. “I would like you to do me a favor that, I believe, will make its recovery more likely.”
“I will be glad to do so,” Anielewicz answered, “as long as it is nothing that endangers any of my fellow Jews except for the ones who have taken the bomb.”
“I do not believe that will be a problem,” Gorppet said.
“Go ahead, then,” Mordechai said. “I shall have to be the final judge of that, though. I warn you now, to avoid misunderstandings later.”
“I understand,” the Lizard said. “You may perhaps be interested to learn that we have recruited your acquaintance, the Deutsch officer named Johannes Drucker, to provide us with information and work with us from his new post in Flensburg.”
“Have you?” Mordechai said. “How did you manage that?” He had trouble imagining Drucker working with the Race. But one possible way to get the rocket pilot’s cooperation crossed his mind. “Did you threaten to tell his superiors that he and I worked together for a little while without trying to slaughter each other?”
“That is exactly what we did, as a matter of fact,” Gorppet answered. “You must be well schooled in duplicity, to have figured it out so quickly.”
“Maybe.” Mordechai admired Gorppet for thinking of it. Not many Lizards would have. “However that may be, what do you want me to do?”
“We informed the Deutsche that this bomb might be on the territory of their not-empire. I have learned from Johannes Drucker that the Deutsch constabulary believe it to have been hidden not far from the city of Breslau. You are familiar with the city of Breslau?” Gorppet said.
“Yes, I am familiar with it,” Anielewicz answered. “That is, I know of it. I have never been inside it. The Deutsche touched off an explosive-metal bomb near there during the first round of fighting.”
“Indeed. And the Race detonated one on the city during the more recent combat,” Gorppet said. “Breslau itself is not presently inhabited or inhabitable. But the surrounding towns and villages remain densely populated. If the bomb were to explode, it would do severe damage. It might cause new fighting, much of which would involve Poland.”
That struck Anielewicz as probable, too, unpleasantly so. “I ask you again: what do you want me to do?”
“We of the Race have moved combat teams into the area,” Gorppet replied. “The Deutsche have also moved combat teams into the area. But no one is eager to try to retake the bomb. Failure would be expensive.”
“Truth.” Mordechai used an emphatic cough to show how big a truth it was. He went on, “There are enough Tosevites with the bomb that you can-not wait for them all to sleep at the same time?”
“That appears to be the case, yes,” Gorppet said. “And so we were hoping you might go to this town near Breslau and try to persuade the fellow members of your superstition to surrender, and to return the bomb. We are willing to promise them safe conduct and freedom from punishment, and we shall enforce this on the Deutsche.”
“Why do you suppose these Jews will listen to me?” Mordechai asked. “If they were the sort who would listen to me, they would never have taken the bomb into the Reich in the first place.”
“If they will not listen to you, to whom will they listen?” the Lizard asked in return. “Suggest a name. We would be grateful for that.”
Try as he would, Anielewicz couldn’t come up with any names. “Maybe,” he said hopefully, “they have not set off the bomb because they cannot, because it will not detonate any more.”
“No one has seemed eager to experiment along those lines,” Gorppet said. “Will you come to the environs of Breslau? If you choose to do so, both the Race and the Deutsche will obey your orders.”
“I will come,” Anielewicz said.
“Good,” Gorppet answered. “Pack whatever you need. Pack quickly. Transportation will be laid on. Farewell.” He hung up.
“What are you doing?” Bertha Anielewicz exclaimed when Mordechai started throwing clothes into the cheap cardboard suitcase that was the only one they owned. He explained as he went on packing. That made his wife exclaim again, louder than ever.
“I know,” he said. “What choice have I got?”
He hoped she would come up with one for him. She didn’t. All she said was, “You’re doing this for the Germans?”
He shook his head. “I’m doing this to keep the war from hitting Poland again. If that helps the Germans…” He shrugged. “What can you do?”
Somebody knocked on the door. Bertha opened it. A man spoke in Polish: “I’m here for Mordechai Anielewicz.”
“I’m coming,” he said, and grabbed the suitcase. He kissed his wife on the way out, then followed the man downstairs to a beat-up motorcar. They got in. The car zoomed off to a park. A helicopter waited there, rotors spinning. He scrambled into it. He didn’t fit well: it was made by and for Lizards. The helicopter roared off to an airstrip a few kilometers outside of Przemysl. A jet aircraft sat on the runway. Its motors were already running. As soon as Anielewicz boarded and sat down in one of the uncomfortable seats, the airplane took off. Half an hour later, he was on the outskirts of Breslau.
A male came up to him while he was still wondering if he’d remembered to bring a toothbrush. “I am Gorppet,” the Lizard said. “I greet you.”
“And I greet you,” Mordechai answered. “What are you doing here, if I may ask? Are you an expert on explosive-metal bombs?”
“Me?” Gorppet made the negative gesture. “Hardly. But my superiors have decided I am an expert on Johannes Drucker and Mordechai Anielewicz. That is the expertise that brought me here to meet you. Am I not a lucky male?”
“Very lucky,” Anielewicz agreed. He didn’t know how to say cynic in the language of the Race, but thought Gorppet’s picture could have illustrated the dictionary definition. “Where near Breslau do you think the bomb is hidden?”
“Somewhere in the town called Kanth. Where, no one has bothered to tell me yet,” Gorppet replied-a cynic, sure enough. “In this strange environment, it could be anywhere, and that is a truth. Altogether too much water on this world.”
The vicinity of Breslau didn’t seem so strange to Anielewicz. The city had sprawled on both sides of the Oder and over the numerous islands in the river. Dozens of bridges had spanned the Oder. These days, Breslau itself was wreckage and nothing else but, thanks to the explosive-metal bomb that had burst above the city. Considering what the Germans had visited on Poland-and anywhere else their bombs could reach-Mordechai had a certain amount of trouble feeling sympathetic.
He pointed ahead. “This little town here-Kanth? — hardly seems to have many hiding places for a bomb.”
“Easy enough to hide a bomb,” Gorppet answered. “Harder to hide that we are looking for it.”
And there, as the Race would have said, was another truth. The Lizards had set up a command post outside of Kanth. The Germans had set up another one. If there were Jews holed up in there with ten tonnes’ worth of explosive-metal bomb, they could hardly doubt they’d been noticed.
“What exactly do you want me to do?” Mordechai asked. “Go in there and ask them to come out without blowing up the town?”
“As I told you on the telephone, we and the Deutsche will obey your orders here,” Gorppet replied. “These are your followers. The presumption is that you will best know how to deal with them.”
Anielewicz wondered how good that presumption was. Any followers of his who really followed him wouldn’t have absconded with the explosive-metal bomb in the first place. But he had no better notions, and so he said, “We had both better find out where your leaders believe the bomb to be.”
“It shall be done, superior sir,” Gorppet said, for all the world as if Mordechai were a Lizard of higher rank. “Come with me, then. We can both learn.”
Inside one of the tents the Lizards had set up, a monitor displayed a map of Kanth. The map was in German, and must have been copied from a Nazi document. A red square blinked on and off on one street near the edge of town. Anielewicz pointed to it. “Is that the place?”
“Yes, that is the place,” answered a Lizard whose body paint was similar to Gorppet’s but somewhat more ornate. He went on, “I am Hozzanet. You are the male named Anielewicz?” At Mordechai’s nod, Hozzanet went on, “What can we do to assist you in dealing with these individuals?”
“Get me a bicycle,” Mordechai answered. “I do not want to walk all that way.”
“It shall be done,” Hozzanet said, and done it was. He had no idea where the Lizards came up with the bicycle-for all he knew, they borrowed it from the Nazis-but they got it. His legs ached when he started pedaling: the never-failing legacy of German nerve gas more than twenty years before. Why am I doing this? he wondered. Why am I risking my neck to save a bunch of Germans who hate me? That was the question his wife had asked. It seemed more urgent now. But the answer still came all too clearly. Because this band of idiots is liable to make the Nazis visit more harm on people I don’t hate, on people I love.
People in Kanth stared at him as he rolled through the quiet, almost empty streets. They knew something was going on, but they had no idea what. If they started fleeing, what would the men with the bomb do? Probably try to set it off, so they could kill folk other than themselves. Anielewicz had played the role of a terrorist. He knew how such folk thought.
Here was the street. Here was the house, on the left-hand side. It had an attached garage that had probably been a stable before the turn of the century. It could easily have held the bomb. Nobody had trimmed the grass in front of the house for a long time, but that was far from unique on the Street. With fall edging toward winter, most of the grass had gone grayish yellow.
Mordechai leaned the bicycle against a beech tree with a couple of bullet holes in the trunk. As he walked up to the door, he felt eyes on him from inside. What a fool I am for coming here, he thought, and knocked on the tarnished brass knocker.
The door opened. The man who stood there aimed a submachine gun at Anielewicz’s belly. “All right, you damned traitor,” he growled in Yiddish. “Get your tukhus inside! Right now!” Mordechai went in. The door slammed shut behind him.
Ttomalss did not like using a sound-only telephone, but the Race didn’t yet have a consulate in Tours from which he could have had a proper discussion with the Tosevite historian Felless had found for him. Making the best of things, he said, “I greet you, Professor Dutourd.”
A male Big Ugly turned his words into Francais. A female Big Ugly answered, presumably in the same tongue. The male Big Ugly spoke in the language of the Race: “And she greets you.”
At least the historian and the interpreter were on the same circuit. As far as Tosevite telephone technology went, that was no small achievement. Ttomalss said, “Professor Dutourd, I gather the Romans whom you study are an important imperial folk among the Tosevites.”
More back-and-forth between the Big Uglies. “Yes, that is a truth,” Monique Dutourd answered through the interpreter. That interpreter, Ttomalss had been given to understand, was a notorious ginger dealer. But he was also a kinsmale to the historian. Knowing from painful personal experience how intimate Tosevite ties of kinship could be, Ttomalss had prevailed upon Ambassador Veffani to allow his release. He hoped he was doing the right thing. He did not want to have to deal with a hostile historian. That would make learning what he needed to know all the more difficult.
“I gather also that these Romans ruled many different kinds of Tosevites, some of them from cultures very different from their own,” Ttomalss said. If he turned out to be wrong there, he would have to ask Felless to find him another historian.
But Monique Dutourd said, “Yes, that is also a truth.”
“Good.” Ttomalss knew he sounded relieved. He wondered if the Tosevite interpreter noticed. The very idea of different cultures had been alien to him before he came to Tosev 3. That of Home had been homogeneous since not long after the Race unified the planet. The Rabotevs and the Hallessi had quickly adopted their conquerors’ ways. He could find more differences crossing a river on this world than he could in crossing light-years of space between worlds in the Empire.
“What is it you wish to know about the Romans and these other cultures?” Monique Dutourd asked.
“I want to learn how the Romans succeeded in incorporating them into their empire and into their culture,” Ttomalss answered.
“Ah, I see,” the Tosevite historian said. “This is relevant to your present situation, is that not a truth?” Either she or her interpreter let out a couple of yips of barking Tosevite laughter. Through him, she went on, “There are those among us who say history is not relevant to anything. I am glad to find the Race disagrees.”
Plenty of males and females of the Race, Ttomalss knew, would not only have agreed but would have added emphatic coughs to their agreement. He did not mention that to the Big Uglies on the other end of the telephone line. Instead, he said, “Yes, I certainly think it is relevant. I am glad to find that you do, too. Whatever you can tell me will be of value to the Race.”
“In that case, perhaps you will understand that I wonder whether I ought to tell you anything at all,” Monique Dutourd said.
“If you do not, someone else will.” Ttomalss did his best to sound indifferent. “Or we will eventually gain the information from your books. Whatever else we may be doing, we are not discussing secret matters here.”
After a pause, the Tosevite female said, “Yes, that is so. Very well; you have reason. I will discuss these things with you.”
“I thank you.” Ttomalss did his best to treat her as he would have treated a savant of his own kind.
She said, “First of all, incorporation into the Roman Empire assumes Roman military victories. I do not think we need to talk about those.”
Ttomalss found himself making the affirmative gesture, which did no good on a phone link without vision. “I would agree with you,” he said. “Our military technology is very different from that of the Romans. And so is yours, nowadays.” And the Race will be arguing about why that is so for generations to come, he thought. Never had his species been presented with such a rude surprise.
“All right, then,” Monique Dutourd said. “Once a subregion was conquered, the Romans gave local autonomy to towns and areas that were not in rebellion against them. They did harshly stamp out rebellions where those arose.”
“That is a sensible policy,” Ttomalss said. “In large measure, we follow it here.” The trouble with following it was that Big Uglies who were put in positions of authority often used that authority for themselves and against the Race. Ttomalss wondered if the Romans had had similar problems.
“With very few exceptions,” Monique Dutourd went on, “the Romans allowed the males and females of the conquered subregions to practice whatever superstitions they chose to follow.”
“That is also a sensible policy,” Ttomalss said. “Why did they make exceptions?”
“On account of superstitions they thought dangerous to their empire,” the Tosevite historian replied. “I can think of two examples. One was the superstition of the Druids, which had its center here in what is now France. The Romans feared that these Druids, who were the leaders of the superstition, would also lead the local inhabitants into rebellion against them.”
“And the other?” Ttomalss asked when Monique Dutourd did not name it at once.
“The other, superior sir, was called Christianity,” she replied. “You may perhaps have heard of it.”
“Yes,” he said automatically, before realizing she was being ironic. Then he asked, “But why did they try to suppress it? And why did they fail? This is the largest Tosevite superstition at the present time.”
“They tried to suppress it because the Christians refused to acknowledge any other… spiritual forces,” Monique Dutourd said, “and because the Christians refused to give reverence to the spirits of the Roman Emperors.”
“Really?” Ttomalss said in surprise. “In that, they are much like the followers of the Muslim superstition today with respect to the spirits of Emperors past-Emperors of the Race, of course.”
“Yes. Both Christianity and Islam are offshoots of the Jewish superstition, which disapproves of giving reverence to anything but the one supreme supernatural authority,” Monique Dutourd said.
“Ah.” Ttomalss scribbled a note to himself. He hoped and assumed the Race already knew that, but he hadn’t known it himself. He asked, “Why are the Muslims so much more fanatically opposed to the Race at present than the Christians?”
“To get a proper answer to that, you would need to ask someone who knows more about Islam than I do,” the Tosevite historian answered.
Her reply won Ttomalss’ respect. He had seen a great many individuals-both members of the Race and Big Uglies-who, because they were experts in one area, were convinced they were also experts in other, usually unrelated, areas. When he said as much, Monique Dutourd started to laugh. “And what do you find funny?” he asked, his dignity affronted.
“I am sorry, superior sir,” she said, “but I find it strange that you are making an argument like the one a famous Tosevite savant named Socrates used when he was on trial for his life almost twenty-four hundred years ago.”
“Am I?” Ttomalss wondered who this Socrates was. “Did his argument succeed?”
“No,” Monique Dutourd answered. “He was put to death.”
“Oh. How… unfortunate.” Ttomalss found a different question: “Did you use your years or mine there?”
“Mine,” she said, so he mentally doubled the figure. She added, “At that time, the Romans were only a small and unimportant group. They later conquered the Greeks, one of whose subgroups, the Athenians, executed Socrates. The Greeks were culturally more advanced than the Romans, but could not unify politically. The Romans conquered them and learned much from them afterwards.”
“I see,” Ttomalss said. Ancientest history back on Home was full of stories like that, some true, others legendary, with scholars disagreeing over which was which. He asked, “What benefits did the Romans give to keep conquered subregions from rebelling?”
“Security from outside invasion,” Monique Dutourd answered. “Security from feuds with their neighbors also within Roman territory. Local self-government, as I said before. A large area unified culturally, and also unified economically.”
“I see,” Ttomalss repeated. “These are, of course, advantages you Tosevites would receive on becoming subjects of the Empire.”
“Ah, subjects,” the Tosevite historian said. “One thing the Romans did that made them unusual among our empires was to grant full citizenship to more and more groups that had formerly been subjects.”
“You could expect the same from us,” Ttomalss said. “Why, already there is one Tosevite with full citizenship in the Empire.”
“How interesting,” Monique Dutourd replied. “Why only one? Who is he?”
“She,” Ttomalss corrected. “That is a complicated story. It has to do with the unusual circumstances of her hatching.” He said not a word about the continuing dispute with Kassquit over whether he kept the right to monitor her activities if she was a full citizen of the Empire. That was also complicated, and none of Monique Dutourd’s business. Instead, Ttomalss asked, “If these Romans were such successful rulers of their empire, why did it fail?”
“Scholars have been arguing over that ever since it happened,” the Tosevite female answered. “There is no one answer. There were diseases that reduced the population. The economy suffered as a result of this. Rulers grew more harsh, and their bureaucracy grew more stifling. And there were foreign invasions, most importantly from the Deutsche, who lived to the north of the Roman Empire.”
“The Deutsche?” Ttomalss exclaimed in surprise. “The same Deutsche whom the Race knows only too well?”
“Their ancestors, rather,” Monique Dutourd said.
“Yes, of course,” Ttomalss said impatiently. “How interesting. That strikes me as an example of true historical continuity. I have not seen many on Tosev 3.”
“They are here,” Monique Dutourd said. “If you have not seen them, it is because you have not looked for them-or perhaps you have not known where to look.”
“Yes, I suppose that could be,” Ttomalss admitted. “Would you be willing to teach me more Tosevite history?”
“It could be,” the female Big Ugly said. “There would be the question of payment, of course.”
“Of course,” Ttomalss said. “I am sure we can come to some sort of equitable arrangement about that.”
“Payment might not necessarily involve money,” Monique Dutourd said, “or not money alone. I would want my kinsmale fully pardoned, now that I am cooperating with the Race.”
“Regardless of his unpleasant and unsavory dealings,” Ttomalss said.
“Yes. Regardless of them.” Ttomalss noted that the Tosevite female did not deny them. She wanted the ginger smuggler forgiven in spite of them. He sighed. Kinship, not friendship, he thought. That showed historical continuity among the Big Uglies, sure enough. He sighed. He could wish-he did wish-it didn’t.
Monique Dutourd wished she hadn’t come to Tours with fall heading toward winter. The city did not show itself to her at best advantage. She was a child of the warm Mediterranean; winter in Marseille was almost always mild, with snow a rarity. Not here. Sure enough, the Atlantic drove Tours’ climate, and frost came to the city early and often. After Caesar’s conquest of Gaul, Roman colonists in ancient Caesarodunum would have been as appalled at the weather as she was now.
The climate at the university was also a good deal less than warm. Monique knew she wouldn’t have gained a position had Felless not pulled wires for her. By all the signs, every colleague in the history department knew as much, too. Her welcome ranged from unenthusiastic to downright hostile.
“Let me teach,” she told her department chairman, a white-haired fellow named Michel Casson who’d been at the university since recovering from a wound he’d received defending Verdun in 1916. “Let me publish. I’ll show you that I belong in this place.”
“You will have the opportunity,” Casson replied, peering at her through reading glasses that magnified his eyes tremendously. “We cannot prevent you from having the opportunity. It is to be hoped that you will not damage the reputation of the university too badly by what you do with it.”
Ears burning, Monique left his office in a hurry. That she might prove an asset to the university had plainly never entered his mind. Her nails bit into her palms. I’ll show you, by God, she thought. Having lost all her notes for the paper on the cult of Isis in Gallia Narbonensis that had occupied her before Marseille went up in nuclear fire, she was doing her best to reconstruct it despite a research library that wasn’t nearly so good as the snooty professors and librarians believed.
Back in Marseille, having to deal with her brother and the unwelcome attentions of Dieter Kuhn had made her neglect the monograph. Here in Tours, Kuhn was gone from her life, for which she heartily thanked the Lord, the Virgin, and all the saints. Instead, though, she had to deal with the Lizard named Ttomalss. He wanted nothing from her in bed. He even paid. But guiding him through Roman history stole time from the paper, no less than submitting to the German’s less intellectual pursuits had done.
And she still had to deal with Pierre. Technically, she supposed he was a paroled prisoner. She tried not to have anything to do with him when he wasn’t translating for Ttomalss. She sometimes wished she hadn’t got him out of the Race’s prison to interpret for her. Her life would have been simpler if she’d left him there to rot.
But he is my brother. Blood was thicker than water. She wondered if Pierre would go to a tenth the trouble for her that she’d gone through for him. She had her doubts. Pierre was for Pierre, first, last, and always.
One day, after they’d got off the telephone with Ttomalss, he said, “It’s a pity that Lizard is such a straight arrow. If he weren’t, I could have a fine new ginger network going already.”
“Do you mean you don’t have one?” Monique asked with what she hoped was withering sarcasm.
Predictably, her brother refused to wither. “Of course I do,” he said. “I meant a new one, one that reached right up into his starship. That would be worth arranging, if only I could.”
“Don’t you ever think of anything but ginger and Lizards?” she demanded.
“Ginger is what I do for a living,” Pierre said imperturbably. “The Lizards are my customers. Don’t you ever think of anything else but those old Romans who’ve been dead forever?”
“Occasionally,” Monique answered, acid in her voice. “Every now and then, for instance, I have to think about how to get you out of prison or whatever other trouble you wind up in on account of ginger.”
Her brother didn’t even have the grace to look shamefaced. “Took you long enough this time, too,” he grumbled. “I thought I was going to rot in that damned cell forever. I got you out of the French jail faster than you sprang me.”
Had he not added that last, reminding her he had helped her now and again, she thought she would have tried to hit him over the head with an ashtray. As things were, she said, “I never would have been carted off to jail if it weren’t for Dieter Kuhn, and he wouldn’t have cared about me at all if it weren’t for you.” One way or another, she was going to pin the blame on Pierre.
He said, “Would you rather have them take me back to jail?”
“What have I got to do with that?” Monique said. “You’re selling ginger again. You don’t bother hiding it from me. You hardly bother hiding it from anybody. Of course the Lizards will notice. They’re not stupid. Do you think they’re not watching you? Sooner or later, you’ll annoy them enough that they’ll scoop you up and throw you into another cell. I probably won’t be able to get you out then, either.”
“Somebody will.” Pierre spoke with maddening confidence. “That’s what connections are for. The more people you know, the more people you’ve got to do you a good turn when you really need one.”
“And the more people you’ve got to betray you when they need something from the Lizards or the flics.”
Pierre stared at her in some surprise. “Where’d you learn to think like that?”
Monique laughed at him. “And people say that studying history never does anybody any good!” she exclaimed, and swept out of the room before he could come up with an answer.
Somewhere south of the city of Tours, the Franks had hurled the previously invincible Arabs back in defeat more than twelve hundred years before. Monique knew that, but she had no interest in finding the battlefield. For one thing, nobody knew exactly where it was. For another, she had no motorcar to go gallivanting over the landscape. And, for a third, that battlefield didn’t much interest her: it was several hundred years too modern. That amused her.
When she happened to mention it to Ttomalss, it amused him, too. “This is a difference in viewpoint between the Race and human beings,” he said through her brother. “To us, a difference of a few hundred years would not matter much.”
“That’s strange,” Monique said. “I would think that a chronological framework was important for your historians as well as for ours.”
“Well, yes,” Ttomalss said, “but everything that happened before the days of the Empire was a very long time ago for us. What real difference if something happened 103,472 years ago or 104,209? I pick the numbers at random, you understand.”
In an aside, Pierre added, “When Lizards talk about years, cut everything they say in half. They count two for every one of ours, more or less.”
“Thanks. I think I already knew that,” Monique answered. It was still daunting. She tried to imagine keeping more than fifty thousand years of history straight. Maybe Ttomalss had a point after all. Even here on Earth, with only a tenth as much history to worry about, people specialized. She concentrated on Roman history. The faculty at the University of Tours also boasted a historian of pre-Roman (not ancient; that wasn’t a word historians used since the Lizards came) Greece, one who studied medieval western Europe, one who specialized in the history of the Byzantine Empire (which struck even Monique as uselessly arcane), and so on.
Even so, she said, “Knowing the relative order in which things happened is important. Otherwise, you cannot speak of causation in any meaningful sense.”
“Causation?” Her brother gave her a dirty look. “How the devil am I supposed to say that in the Lizards’ language?”
“Figure it out,” Monique told him. “If Ttomalss decides you’re not doing a good job, he’ll ask for a new interpreter, and I won’t be able to do a thing about it.”
Pierre’s expression grew even more forbidding, but he must have man-aged to get the meaning across, for Ttomalss answered, “Yes, you are right about that: sequence and relative chronology must be preserved. Absolute chronology may be less important.”
Monique wouldn’t have said that, but she had less absolute chronology to keep in mind. And she found herself enjoying the give-and-take of the discussion with Ttomalss. The Lizard didn’t think like a human being-and why should he? she thought-but he was a long way from stupid. He had trouble understanding how people worked as individuals, though he tried hard at that, too. When he dealt with groups, he did better.
“I thank you,” he said one day. “I am learning a great deal from you. You are both intelligent and well organized. These traits are less common among Tosevites than I might wish.”
After Pierre translated that, he added a two-word commentary of his own: “Teacher’s pet.”
Monique stuck out her tongue at her brother. She said, “Tell Ttomalss that I thank him and I think he’s very kind.” That was flattery, but flattery with a core of truth. It was also flattery with a core of worry. What exactly was he learning from her besides Roman history? Something that would help the Lizards rule their part of Earth more effectively? Did that make her a traitor to mankind?
Don’t be silly, she said to herself. Most people don’t think Roman history matters to us these days, so how could it be important to the Lizards? She relaxed for a while after that crossed her mind. But then she thought, If the Lizards think it’s important, maybe it is.
When the telephone rang in her flat, she hurried to answer it. She’d dreaded the phone in Marseille: it was too likely to be Dieter Kuhn. Here, though, she hadn’t had any trouble. “Allo?”
“Hello, Professor.” Even if Rance Auerbach hadn’t been speaking English, she would have known his wrecked, rasping voice at once. He went on, “How are things going for you up there?”
“Things are… very well, thank you. Thank you very much,” Monique replied. She also used English, and was glad for the chance to practice it. Auerbach was a ginger dealer, too, but somehow that bothered her less in him than it did in her brother. She said, “Is it that I could ask you something?”
“Sure. Go ahead,” he told her, and she poured out the substance of her conversations with Ttomalss and her worries about what the Race was learning. When she’d finished, Auerbach said, “The world would be a better place if everybody’s troubles were so small.”
“Thank you,” Monique said again, this time in French: a breathy sigh of gratitude. She felt as if he were a priest who’d just given her absolution and a very light penance after a particularly sordid confession. “You have no idea how much you relieved me there. I want to be able to see myself in a mirror without flinching.”
That produced a long silence. At last, Auerbach spoke in English again:
“Yeah. Don’t we all?” Monique suddenly wondered if she were the only one whose conscience bothered her.