He had been around Big Uglies long enough to recognize Dr. Rascher’s glower for what it was. The Deutsch physician snapped, “And the Race has always struck us Aryans as being insanely tolerant. If you are daft enough to put up with degeneracy in your own kind for centuries or millennia on end, that is your affair. If we choose to take direct action in uprooting it, that is ours.”
Plainly, Ttomalss wouldn’t get anywhere with this line. The Race, to its dismay, had got nowhere in attempting to dissuade the Deutsche from slaughtering the Jews in their not-empire for no other reason than that they were Jews. Since they were as determined to slaughter males with different mating habits, they would go on doing that, too. Males . . . That sparked a thought in Ttomalss’ mind. “Have you also females who mate with females? If so, what do you do with them?”
“Exterminate them when we catch them, of course,” Dr. Rascher replied. “We are consistent. Did you expect anything different?”
“Not really,” Ttomalss said with a sigh. Unless he was mistaken, Rascher’s face bore an expression of smug self-satisfaction. The researcher hadn’t been familiar with that expression in his work in China, but had seen it on a great many Deutsch officials. They are ideology-mad, he thought. Too many Big Uglies are ideology-mad. They are as drunk on their ideologies as they are on their sexuality.
“You should not have,” Dr. Rascher said, and added an emphatic cough. “It is most important for the Aryan race to preserve its purity and to prevent its defilement by such elements as these.”
“I have heard you Deutsche use this term ‘Aryan’ before,” Ttomalss said. “Sometimes you seem to use it to refer to yourselves and yourselves alone, but sometimes you seem to use it in a different way. Please define it for me.” He knew how important precise definitions were. The Deutsche, all too often, preferred arguing in a circle to precision, though they vehemently denied that was the case.
Dr. Rascher said, “I will define it with great pleasure, taking the definition from the words of our great Leader, Adolf Hitler. Aryans have been and are the race which is the bearer of Tosevite cultural development. It is no accident that the first cultures arose in places where the Aryan, in his encounters with lower races, subjugated them and bent them to his will. As a conqueror, he regulated their practical activity, according to his will and for his aims. As long as he ruthlessly upheld the master attitude, not only did he really remain master, but also the preserver and increaser of culture, which was based on his abilities. When he gives up his purity of blood, he loses his place in the wonderful world which he has made for himself. This is why we so oppose the idea of mingling races.”
“You Deutsche see yourselves as Aryans, then, but not all Aryans are necessarily Deutsche—is that correct?” Ttomalss asked.
“It is, although we are the most perfect representatives of the Aryan race anywhere on Tosev 3,” Rascher replied.
“Fascinating,” Ttomalss said. “Most fascinating indeed. And what is your evidence for these assertions?”
“Why, I told you,” Dr. Rascher said. “In his writings, Hitler sets forth the doctrine of the Aryans in great detail.”
“Yes, you did tell me that,” Ttomalss agreed. “But what was Hitler’s evidence? Did he have any? What do Tosevite historians say about these questions? What does archaeology say about them? Why do you accept Hitler’s word and not the statements of those who disagree with him, if there are any?”
Behind corrective lenses that magnified them, Dr. Rascher’s eyes—they were of a washed-out gray, a very ugly color to Ttomalss—grew larger still, a token of astonishment. “Hitler was the Leader of the Reich,” the Deutsch physician exclaimed. “But naturally, his writings on any subject are authoritative.”
“Why?” Ttomalss asked in genuine puzzlement. “He must have known something about leading, of course, or he would not have led your not empire, but how much did he understand about these other things? How much could he have understood? He spent most of his time leading or getting ready to lead, did he not? What chance did he have to study these other issues in any sort of detail?”
“He was the Leader,” Dr. Rascher replied. “He knew the truth because he was the Leader.” He tacked on another emphatic cough.
Ttomalss and he stared at each other in perfect mutual incomprehension. After a long, long pause, Ttomalss let out another sigh. He’d had a lot of these moments with Big Uglies. Trying to get past this one, he said, “You claim this as revealed belief, then, not as scientific knowledge. You hold it as a superstitious opinion, like the ones expressed in . . . what is the local one here? Ah, Christianity, yes.” He was pleased he’d remembered the name.
But Rascher shook his head. “This is scientific truth. Christianity, on the other fork of the tongue, is a belief similar to your veneration of the spirits of Emperors past.”
He might know the idioms of the Race’s language, but he was an ignorant, barbarous Big Ugly, and did not cast down his eyes when mentioning the Emperors. And he mentioned them in insulting fashion, too. “You have no business speaking of that which you are too foolish to comprehend,” Ttomalss snapped. Dr. Rascher laughed a yipping Tosevite laugh, which further infuriated the researcher.
“Neither have you,” the Big Ugly retorted.
Now Ttomalss and he stared at each other in perfect mutual loathing. “Whatever the veneration of the spirits of Emperors past may be”—Ttomalss lowered his eye turrets toward the ground; he was no ignorant barbarian—“we do not shape the policy of the Empire around it.”
Even as he spoke, he realized that wasn’t completely true. After its first two planetary conquests, the Race had encouraged Emperor-veneration among the Rabotevs and Hallessi, using it as one means of binding the subject peoples to the Empire. Plans had been developed to do the same here on Tosev 3. So far, however, none of those plans had come to anything.
Dr. Rascher said, “Whether the Race lives according to its principles is of no concern to me. The Reich, I am proud to say, does.”
“These principles seem to include slaughtering anyone your famous Leader happened to dislike.” Ttomalss was too nettled to stay anywhere close to diplomatic. “How fortunate for you that his dislikes did not include doctors.”
He’d succeeded in making the Big Ugly as angry as he was. Rascher sprang to his feet and pointed toward the door. “Get out!” he shouted. “Get out, and never show your ugly snouted face outside your embassy again!” He punctuated that with another emphatic cough. “Your kind deserves extermination far more than any Tosevites.”
Ttomalss also rose, with more than a little relief: he found the Big Uglystyle chair in which he’d been sitting imperfectly comfortable. “I never thought any intelligent race or subgroup deserved extermination,” he said. “You Deutsche, though, tempt me to believe I may have been mistaken.”
Having got the last word, he returned to the Race’s embassy in something approaching triumph. He was still studying his recorded notes, trying to find anything resembling sense in the Reich’s policies, when the telephone circuitry in his computer hissed for attention. On activating the telephone, he found himself looking into Veffani’s face. The ambassador said, “I have received a complaint of you from the Deutsche.”
“It could be, superior sir,” Ttomalss said. “I have a good many complaints against them, too.” He summarized his conversation with Dr. Rascher, including the Big Ugly’s revolting comments about the veneration of the spirits of Emperors past.
“They are revolting,” Veffani agreed. “But you have insulted them to such a degree that they insist you leave the Reich immediately. By the usages of diplomacy on Tosev 3, they are within their rights to make such a demand.”
“It shall be done.” Ttomalss did his best to sound as if he were obeying an order he didn’t care for. Inside, though, he felt like skittering for joy, mad and carefree as a hatchling.
“I want you to know one thing, Senior Researcher,” Veffani said.
“What is that, superior s
ir?” Ttomalss asked, as he knew he should.
“It is very simple: by the Emperor, how I envy you!”
Kassquit passed Tessrek in a corridor of the orbiting starship where she’d spent almost her entire life. Tessrek, she knew, loathed her for what she was and for what she had so nearly become. But the male was a colleague of Ttomalss, and so Kassquit bent into the best posture of respect she could and said, “I greet you, superior sir.”
“I greet you,” Tessrek replied, and went on his way without so much as turning an eye turret back in her direction. It was the minimum possible politeness, but Kassquit did not feel insulted. On the contrary: most of what she’d had from Tessrek over the years were insults. He’d given them to Ttomalss, too; he was a thoroughly bad-tempered male. After she’d insulted him in return, though, he’d become a lot more wary—she’d gone from target to possibly dangerous foe.
“That will do,” Kassquit murmured as she let herself into her own cubicle. “Let him hate me, so long as he fears me a little, too.”
Once inside, she went over to the computer terminal and sat down in front of it. Before she began to use it, she took a set of artificial fingerclaws from a drawer below the keyboard and put them on. She could not use voice commands; as she’d seen time and again, the machine stubbornly refused to understand her.
A glance at her reflection in the computer screen told her why, as if she hadn’t known. No way around it: though Ttomalss had raised her as a hatchling and then as a female of the Race, she was a Big Ugly. The computer knew—it couldn’t follow the mushy way in which she pronounced the language of the Race. It was the only language she knew, and she couldn’t speak it properly. That struck her as most unfair.
She shaved the hair on her head. Since her body matured, she’d shaved the hair under her arms and between her legs, too. Having the stuff at all disgusted her. Getting rid of it didn’t make her soft, smooth hide much like the scaly skin a female of the Race should have had. Even her color was wrong: she was golden, not a proper greenish brown.
Her eyes were too small and too narrow and did not lie in moving turrets. She had no proper snout. She had no tailstump, either, and when she stood, she stood far too erect. She’d tried leaning forward all the time like a proper member of the Race, but it made her back hurt. She’d had to give it up.
“I am not a proper member of the Race,” she said, rubbing it in. “I am very ugly. But I am civilized. I would rather be what I am—and what I almost am—than a wild Big Ugly down on Tosev 3.”
As she turned on the computer and colors filled the screen, she let out a sigh of relief. For one thing, those colors made her own reflection harder to see, which made it easier to imagine she really was a female of the Race. For another, the computer gave her access to the Race’s information and opinion network. There, she might as well have been a female of the Race. No one could tell otherwise, not by the way she wrote. Her views were worth as much as anyone else’s—sometimes more than someone else’s, if she could argue better.
She wondered what males and females of the Race would think if they knew the person who challenged their views was in fact an overtall, overstraight, soft-skinned, small-eyed Big Ugly. Actually, she didn’t wonder. She knew. Whatever respect she’d earned for her brains would vanish, dissolved in the scorn and suspicion the Race felt toward Tosevites.
She felt the same scorn and suspicion toward Tosevites herself. She’d learned it from Ttomalss, who’d raised her since hatchlinghood; from every other male—and, since the coming of the colonization fleet, female—of the Race she’d met in person; and from every bit of video and writing the Race had produced about Tosev 3.
But having it aimed at her hurt almost too much to bear.
She checked for new comments and speculations about which independent Tosevite not-empire had attacked and destroyed more than ten ships from the colonization fleet not long after they took up their orbits around this world. The Race had delivered token punishments to each of the three suspects—the SSSR, the USA, and the Reich—because it could not prove which of them had done the murderous deed. That didn’t stop males and females from speculating endlessly, but the speculations, as far as Kassquit could see, had reached the point of diminishing returns. And the less the speculators knew, the more strident they were about advancing their ill-informed claims.
With more than a little relief, she escaped that area and went to one nearby: one where the Race discussed the American spacecraft known, for no reason she could fathom, as the Lewis and Flark. No. She corrected herself: the Lewis and Clark. Changing the name made it no more meaningful to her.
Here, too, discussion had died down. The Lewis and Clark had been a mystery when the American Big Uglies were fitting out their former space station to travel through this solar system. They’d done so in such ostentatious secrecy that they’d aroused everyone’s suspicion and alarm. Most males and females had feared they were turning it into some immense, and immensely dangerous, orbital fortress.
It had even aroused the Big Uglies’ suspicions. Somehow or other, a Tosevite going by the name of Regeya had wormed his way onto the Race’s network, to learn what he could of what the Race thought and had learned about the space station. No one had recognized him for what he was till Kassquit did.
I should be proud of that, she thought. I got him expelled from areas of the network where he had no right to go.
With a sigh, Kassquit made the negative hand gesture. She was proud . . . but then again, she wasn’t. The Tosevite who called himself Regeya had had a more interesting way of looking at things and expressing himself than most of the males and females with whose opinions she’d become all too familiar. The network was a duller place without him on it.
It is a more secure place without him on it, Kassquit told herself. That consoled the part of her which devoted itself to duty: a very large part, thanks to Ttomalss’ training. But it wasn’t all of her. The rest craved fun and amusement. She sometimes wished it wouldn’t, but it did.
Some of the curious part of her also wished Regeya remained on the network. Before she’d recognized him as a Big Ugly, he’d come close to doing the same in reverse. She didn’t know how; her command of the Race’s written language was perfect, which his wasn’t quite. But he had. He’d asked to talk to her by telephone. She couldn’t do that, not without giving away what she was.
“Fun,” she said aloud. “Amusement.” She went to a new area on the network, one that offered both of those: the area devoted to discussion of the best ways to nurture hatchlings. The conquest fleet had been all-male; not till the colonization fleet arrived did that area become necessary.
How do you make hatchlings not bite when you feed them? someone—a harassed someone—had written since Kassquit last checked there.
Someone else, evidently a voice of experience, had given a three-word reply to that: You do not. The responder had also added the Race’s conventional symbol for an emphatic cough.
The next message was a glyph of an open mouth, the conventional symbol for laughter. Kassquit’s mouth fell open, too. She laughed like that when she remembered to. Sometimes, though, amusement made her yip the way a Big Ugly was biologically programmed to do.
A few messages further on, someone named Maargyees wrote, This is my very first clutch of eggs. I wish I had never laid them. Not being able to talk to the hatchlings is driving me out of my scales. What do I do about that?
Live with it, answered the cynic who’d replied to the earlier message.
We all do, someone else added. Sooner or later, they turn into civilized beings. We did, you know.
Maargyees wasn’t easily quelled. Sure seems like later to me, she wrote.
How is it that you are so ignorant of hatchlings and their ways? a male asked.
Me? Maargyees answered. I was hatched in a barn myself I do not know anything. Know? I do not even suspect anything.
That sent several laughter signs up onto the computer screen. Kassquit add
ed one of her own. Maargyees had a flippant, irreverent way of looking at the world, very different from the endless run of boring comments from most males and females. Kassquit hadn’t seen anything like it for quite a while. She hadn’t seen anything like it, as a matter of fact, since . . .
She paused with her artificial fingerclaws poised above the keyboard. “Since Regeya,” she said aloud. And she knew only too well who, or rather what, Regeya had turned out to be.
Could the obstreperous Big Ugly, having been booted off the network once, have found a new disguise under which to return? Kassquit decided to do a little checking. No messages from anyone named Maargyees appeared anywhere until some time after Regeya had been removed. That didn’t prove anything, but it was suggestive. Maargyees sounded more like a name a Rabotev should carry than one belonging to a female of the Race, but that didn’t prove anything, either—some members of the Race hatched on Rabotev 2 had local names.
As she had for the falsely named Regeya, Kassquit checked the records. Sure enough, a Maargyees had come with the colonization fleet—a Maargyees with a personal identification number different from the one this female was using.
“Well, well,” Kassquit murmured. She knew she ought to report the wild Big Ugly’s return to the network, but had trouble bringing herself to do it. Things had been dull since Regeya vanished from the network. And Kassquit had a hard time seeing how asking questions about hatchlings constituted any sort of danger for the Race.
She could always report the Tosevite later. For now, she sent him—him, not her—an electronic message: I greet you, Maargyees. And how is the life of a senior tube technician these days? That was the fictitious occupation the equally fictitious Regeya had said he used.
Colonization: Down to Earth Page 10
