Down to Earth c-2

by Harry Turtledove

  “Anything else?” Healey barked. When Johnson said there wasn’t, the commandant broke the connection. That was in character for him, where the chuckle hadn’t been-hadn’t even come close.

  “So we just go on about our business?” Lucy asked. “That won’t be so easy, not for some of the things we’ll need to do sooner or later.”

  Johnson shrugged; his belt held him in his seat. He’d spent his adult life in the service; he knew how to evaluate military problems. “Yes and no,” he said. “If you know the other guy is watching, you can make sure he only sees what you want him to see, and sometimes you can lead him around by the nose. What’s really bad is when he’s watching and you don’t know he’s there. That’s when he can find out stuff that hurts you bad.”

  “I can see how it would be.” The mineralogist sounded thoughtful. “You make it seem so logical. Every trade has its own tricks, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, sure,” Johnson answered, surprised she needed to ask. “If we hadn’t had some notion of what we were doing, we’d all be singing the Lizard national anthem every time we went to the ballpark.”

  She laughed. “Now there’s a picture for you! But do you know what? Some of the Lizard POWs who ended up settling in the States like playing baseball. I saw them on the TV news once. They looked pretty good, too.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Johnson said. “I never saw film of them playing, though.”

  “More important to worry about what they’re doing out here,” Lucy said. “And whatever it is, they’ll have a harder time doing it because you were on the ball. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” he said in some confusion. He wasn’t used to praise for what he did. If he carried out his assignments, he was doing what his superiors expected of him, and so didn’t particularly deserve praise. And if he didn’t carry them out, he got raked over the coals. That was the way things worked. After a moment, he added, “I never would have spotted it if you hadn’t sent me out this way, so I guess you deserve half the credit. I’ll tell General Healey so, too.”

  They spent the next little while wrangling good-naturedly about who deserved what, each trying to say the other should get it. Finally, Lucy Vegetti said, “The only reason we did come out here was to get a look at that asteroid shaped like a zucchini. Can we still get over there?”

  Johnson checked the gauges for the main tank and the maneuvering jets, then nodded. “Sure, no trouble at all.” He chuckled. “Now I can’t stop halfway there and say, ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we just ran out of gas on this little country road in the middle of nowhere.’ ”

  They were in the middle of nowhere, all right, far more so than they could have been anyplace on Earth. The very idea of a road, country or otherwise, was absurd here. Lucy said, “I didn’t figure you for that kind of guy anyway, Glen. You’re not shy if you’ve got something on your mind.”

  “I’ve got something on my mind, all right,” he said.

  “Maybe I’ve got something on mine, too,” she answered. “Maybe we could even find out-after we give this asteroid the once-over and after we get back to the Lewis and Clark.”

  “Sure,” Johnson agreed, and swung the nose of the hot rod away from the Lizard spy craft and toward the asteroid that interested Lucy.

  Vyacheslav Molotov had disliked dealing with Germans longer than he’d disliked dealing with Lizards. On a personal level, he disliked dealing with Germans more, too. He made allowances for the Lizards. They were honestly alien, and often were ignorant of the way things were supposed to work on Earth. The Germans had no such excuses, but they could make themselves more difficult than the Lizards any day of the week.

  Paul Schmidt, the German ambassador to Moscow, was a case in point. Schmidt was not a bad fellow. Skilled in languages-he’d started out as an English interpreter-he spoke good Russian, even if he did always leave the verb at the end of the sentence in the Germanic fashion. But he had to take orders from Himmler, which meant his inherent decency couldn’t count for much.

  Molotov glared at him over the tops of his reading glasses. “Surely you do not expect me to take this proposition seriously,” he said.

  “We could do it,” Schmidt said. “Between us, we could split Poland as neatly as we did in 1939.”

  “Oh, yes, that was splendid,” Molotov said. Schmidt recognized sarcasm more readily than a Lizard would, and had the grace to flush. Molotov drove the point home anyhow: “The half of Poland the Reich seized gave it a perfect springboard for the invasion of the Soviet Union a year and a half later. How long would we have to wait for your panzers this time? Not very, unless I miss my guess.”

  “Reichs Chancellor Himmler is prepared to offer an ironclad guarantee of the integrity of Soviet territory after this joint undertaking,” the German ambassador told him.

  He didn’t laugh in Schmidt’s face. Why he didn’t, he couldn’t have said: some vestige of bourgeois politesse, perhaps. “In view of past history, the Soviet Union is not prepared to accept German guarantees,” he said.

  Schmidt looked wounded. Like any Nazi, he thought a wave of the hand sufficed to relegate history to the rubbish bin. A miracle the Americans haven’t gone Nazi, Molotov thought. But Schmidt said, “Surely you cannot say you like having the aliens on your western border.”

  “I do not,” Molotov admitted. The German ambassador brightened-until Molotov added, “But I vastly prefer them to the Reich. They form a useful buffer. And what do you suppose they would do if we were rash enough to fall on their colony in Poland? They would not sit quiet, I assure you.”

  “I think they might,” Schmidt said, and then qualified that by adding, “Reichs Chancellor Himmler thinks they might. They have no adjoining territory. Once lost, Poland would be difficult for them to regain. What could they do but acquiesce to the fait accompli?”

  “Drop nuclear weapons on the Soviet Union and the Reich till both countries glow for the next thousand years,” Molotov answered. “In my considered opinion, that is exactly what they would do at such an outrageous provocation.

  “Chancellor Himmler believes otherwise,” Schmidt said. This time, he didn’t say anything about what he believed. Molotov nodded to himself. He’d pegged the ambassador for an intelligent man. He might present Himmler’s proposal as part of his duty, but that didn’t mean he thought it was a good idea.

  “If Chancellor Himmler believes otherwise, he is welcome to launch this attack against Poland by himself,” the Soviet leader said. “If he succeeds, he is welcome to all the spoils. I will congratulate him.” I will also begin fortifying our western frontier more strongly than ever.

  “Our two great nations have cooperated before, first in rectifying the frontiers of eastern Europe in 1939 and then in the struggle against the Lizards,” Schmidt said smoothly. “What we have done once, we can do again.”

  “We have also fought each other to the death in the interval between those times,” Molotov said icily. “When your predecessor, Count Schulenberg, announced that your nation had wantonly invaded mine, I asked him, ‘Do you believe that we deserved this?’ He had no answer. I do not believe you have an answer, either.”

  He had never had a worse moment in his life than when the German envoy announced the start of hostilities on 22 June 1941. Stalin had never thought that day would come, which meant no one under Stalin had dared think it might come. Had the Lizards not landed, who could guess which of the two giants in Europe would have been left standing when the fighting was done?

  Schmidt did his best, as his masters in Berlin would have wanted him to do. Voice still smooth, he said, “That was twenty years ago, Comrade General Secretary. Times change. Both of our governments view the Race as the greatest menace facing humanity these days, would you not agree?”

  “The Race is the greatest enemy facing humanity, yes. I would agree with that.” Molotov shot out a forefinger to point at the German ambassador. “But the Reich is without a doubt the greatest menace to the peace-loving people of the S
oviet Union.”

  “Chancellor Himmler does not think the Soviet Union is the greatest menace to the Reich,.” Paul Schmidt told him. “That is why he invited you-”

  “To share in his own destruction,” Molotov broke in. “Do you know what would likely happen even if the Reich and the USSR did succeed in wresting Poland from the Race?”

  “You have expressed your view on the matter with great clarity,” Schmidt said.

  Molotov shook his head. “The view I expressed was, as you say, mine. If anything, it was also unduly optimistic. If we ousted the Lizards from Poland, they might conclude we were drawing ahead of them technically. Do you know what they might do if they came to that conclusion?”

  “Respect us. Fear us,” Schmidt answered. He might be a decent enough fellow. He might be a clever fellow. But Nazi ideology had corroded his thought processes, sure enough. Too bad, Molotov thought.

  “They might indeed do those things,” he said aloud. “Most especially, they might fear us. And, if they fear us enough, their ambassador here in Moscow has made it clear that they will seek to destroy us altogether so we cannot possibly become a menace to the Empire as a whole. Has not the Lizard ambassador in Nuremberg conveyed a similar message to your leaders?”

  “If he has, I am not aware of it.” Schmidt looked thoughtful, an unusual expression to find on a German’s face.

  Here, Molotov believed him. Regardless of the warnings the Race might have given the Nazi bigwigs, they were unlikely to take them seriously. In their arrogance, the leaders of the Reich, like so many spoiled children, still thought they could do whatever they wanted simply because they wanted to do it. Unlike spoiled children, though, they could wreck the world if they tried.

  Schmidt licked his lips. “I think I had better send that message back to Nuremberg with some urgency. If it has already been communicated to my superiors, it will do no harm. If it has not, it may do some good.”

  “I hope so,” Molotov said. “Considering the adventurism your government has displayed up to this point, though, I would not bet any sizable sum on that, however. Perhaps you had better go attend to it at once-unless, that is, you have any less reckless proposals to lay on the table before me.”

  “I have made the proposal I came here to make,” Schmidt said. He rose, bowed, and took his leave.

  Molotov’s secretary looked into the office. “Your next appointment, Comrade General Secretary, is-”

  “I don’t care who it is,” Molotov said. “I need to consult the foreign commissar. Have Comrade Gromyko come here at once.”

  “But it’s Marshal Zhukov!” the secretary wailed.

  “I don’t care,” Molotov repeated, though he cared very much. But he had to do this for the safety of the country. “Give him my regrets, say the matter is urgent, and tell him I will see him as soon as it is convenient. Go on, Pyotr Maksimovich. He won’t eat you.” Though if he is unhappy enough, he may eat me.

  By the look on the secretary’s face, he was thinking the same thing. But he said, “Very well, Comrade General Secretary,” and disappeared. Molotov might not be more powerful than Zhukov-he feared he wasn’t-but he could still tell his secretary what to do. Silently, he cursed Lavrenti Beria. If the NKVD chief hadn’t tried to overthrow him, he wouldn’t be beholden to the Red Army now.

  But Zhukov didn’t choose to eat Molotov, at least not then. And Gromyko got to the Soviet leader’s office inside ten minutes. Without preamble, the foreign commissar said, “And what has gone wrong now?”

  Molotov appreciated Gromyko’s style, not least because it came so close to matching his own. “I will tell you what has gone wrong, Andrei Andreyevich,” he said, and recounted the exchange he’d just had with Paul Schmidt.

  “Bozhemoi!” Gromyko exclaimed when he was through. “The fascists are serious about this?”

  “I would say so, yes, unless they are merely trying to lure us to our own destruction,” Molotov answered. “But surely even the Nazis could not reckon us so naive. My question for you is, how do we respond, beyond rejecting the proposal?”

  “One obvious thing we could do is tell the Lizards what the Reich has in mind,” Gromyko said.

  “We could indeed do that. Whether we should is one of the things I wanted to ask you,” Molotov said. “The question, of course, is whether the Lizards would believe us. We and the Germans spend a good deal of time spreading misinformation about each other. That could prove a nuisance now.”

  “So it could,” the foreign commissar agreed. “But I think that, in this case, the effort would be worthwhile. The Nazis are surely contemplating the use of nuclear weapons here: they could not hope to conquer Poland without them. This is not a trivial matter.”

  “No, indeed,” Molotov replied. “I warned Schmidt about what Queek has told me: that the Race may seek to exterminate mankind if we present a large enough danger to them.”

  “And how did he respond?” Gromyko inquired.

  “With surprise,” Molotov answered. “But who can truly say what goes on inside a German’s head? Who can truly say if anything goes on in a German’s head? Your view is that we should inform the Race?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Gromyko replied. “I think we should also be conspicuous about not moving troops into areas near Lizard-held Poland. They must not think we are trying to deceive them and preparing our own surprise attack.”

  “A distinct point, and one I shall have to raise with Marshal Zhukov,” Molotov said. And if he fusses, I will ask him how well prepared he is for a nuclear exchange with the Lizards. With a little luck, I may be able to begin to exert a little control over the Red Army after all. He nodded to Gromyko. The foreign commissar nodded back, and even managed something of a smile. He probably knew what was on Molotov’s mind.

  “I really do not see why you require my presence here, superior sir,” Felless said to Veffani as the motorcar that carried them pulled up in front of the residence the not-emperor of the Greater German Reich used as his own.

  The Race’s ambassador to the Reich turned an eye turret toward her. “Because he is a Tosevite,” Veffani answered. “Because you are alleged to be an expert on Tosevites. I want your views on what he says and on how he says it.”

  “And you want to continue punishing me for the incident in your conference room,” Felless added.

  Veffani was unabashed. “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Count yourself lucky that I let you remove the green bands denoting punishment: I do not wish to advertise your disgrace to the Deutsche. Now come with me. The matter over which we visit the Deutsch not-emperor is, or at least has the possibility of being, of considerable importance.”

  “It shall be done,” Felless said miserably, and got out of the heated motorcar and into the chilly atmosphere that passed for summer in Nuremberg.

  Up the stairs she went. The not-emperor’s residence, like most official architecture in the capital of the Reich, was on a scale designed to dwarf even Big Uglies, to make them feel insignificant when measured against the power of their leaders. It trivialized males and females of the Race even more effectively. So did the immensely tall Deutsch sentries at the head of the stairs.

  A shorter, unarmed Big Ugly stood between the sentries. “I greet you,” he said in the language of the Race, and favored Veffani with the posture of respect. “And your colleague is…?”

  “Senior Researcher Felless,” Veffani answered.

  “Very well,” the Deutsch male said, and inclined his head to Felless. “I am Johannes Stark, Senior Researcher. I shall interpret for you with the Reichs Chancellor. He will be able to see you shortly.”

  “He should see me now,” Veffani said. “This is the time set for our appointment.”

  “The meeting he is currently attending is running long, the Big Ugly said.

  “Delay is an insult,” Felless said.

  Stark shrugged. “Come with me. I will take you to an antechamber where you can make yourselves comfortable.”

  Felless
doubted she would be able to make herself comfortable in any Tosevite building, and she proved right. The chamber was chilly. The seats in it were made for Big Uglies, not for the Race. A servant did come in with refreshments, but they tasted nasty. Felless endured. What choice had she?

  After what seemed like forever, the Big Ugly named Stark returned and said, “The Reichs Chancellor will see you now. Please follow me.”

  The Big Ugly named Himmler sat behind a desk so large, a starship might have landed on it. On one wall of his office was an enormous hooked and tilted cross, the emblem of his faction. On the other wall hung an equally enormous portrait of another Tosevite, this one with the hair on his upper lip cut in a pattern different from the one Himmler chose. Felless gathered that was his predecessor as not-emperor of the Reich.

  Against all that immensity, Himmler himself seemed strangely shrunken. Even for a Big Ugly, he was unprepossessing, with a round, flat, soft-fleshed face with corrective lenses in front of his immobile eyes. He spoke in the guttural language the Deutsche used among themselves. Johannes Stark translated: “The Reichs Chancellor greets you and inquires why you have requested this meeting.”

  “I greet him as well,” Veffani said. “I asked to see him to warn him and to warn this whole not-empire against taking any course that would jeopardize the long-standing truce on Tosev 3.”

  Stark translated that, too. Felless wished she had some ginger. It would have made time pass more quickly. Of course, it would also have made Veffani mate with her on the spot, which might have entertained the Tosevites but would not have advanced diplomacy. Listening to Himmler and the interpreter drone on in their own language made it hard for her to care. At least she wouldn’t have been bored.

  Himmler said, “On behalf of the Reich, I must tell you that I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “On behalf of the Race, I must tell you that that had better be so,” Veffani answered. “Any movement against Poland, any attack on Poland, will lead at once to the harshest and most stringent retaliation.”