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 Français.”
“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, “Allô?”—the standard Français telephone greeting.
“I greet you,” Felless said in return, and the interpreter translated her words into Français. “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 Français?”
“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 Français, “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? S
he 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.”
Colonization: Aftershocks Page 60
