“Your tongue is abominable, not only in its shape but also in the uses to which you put it,” Tessrek said.
Kassquit stuck out the organ in question. She thought it abominable, too, but she would not admit that to Tessrek. Nor would she tell him that she had thought of having it surgically split to make her more like a proper member of the Race. What she did say was, “The things my tongue describes are abominable. The things you do are abominable, worse than any for which the Race has mocked the Tosevites.”
And Tessrek recoiled again. When not in his season, he, like any other male or female of the Race, found reproductive behavior of any sort repugnant. Being reminded of his own had to flay him. “What a little monster Ttomalss raised up among us!” he said angrily.
“I have only told the truth,” Kassquit said. “You are the one who tells lies about me. You have got away with it up till now, but I will not tolerate it any more. Do you understand me, Tessrek?” It was, as best she could remember, the first time she had used his name instead of an honorific.
He noticed, too, and took offense. “Do you presume to use me as an equal?” he demanded.
“I beg your pardon,” Kassquit said sweetly. Tessrek started to relax. Kassquit sank the dart with double enjoyment because of that: “No doubt I gave you too much credit.”
For a moment, she thought Tessrek would physically assail her. He displayed his sharp teeth in a threat gesture more fearsome than hers, and also spread his fingerclaws. Kassquit made herself stand her ground. If he attacks, she told herself, I will kick him as hard as I can.
Tessrek took a step toward her. Feeling as curious as she was frightened, she took a step toward him, as if answering his challenge. And he, with a hiss both furious and frustrated, turned and skittered down the corridor in retreat that rapidly turned into rout. Still hissing, he rounded a corridor and disappeared.
“By the Emperor,” Kassquit said softly. Never in her life had she faced down a male of the Race. Never in her life had she tried to do that. As soon as she stopped assuming she was inferior, she stopped being inferior. Astonished, she murmured, “I can match myself against them. I truly can.”
For the first time, she had an insight into how ginger made males and females of the Race feel. The power surging through her was sweet. It was not the satisfaction or release she got from touching herself, but in a certain way it was even more enjoyable. I overcame him, she thought. I never overcame anyone before. A moment later, another thought struck her: I wonder why I never tried to overcome anyone before.
She saw Tessrek again later that day. The male left her alone, as he had not done since Ttomalss went down to the surface of Tosev 3. Nor did he seek to quarrel with her again after that.
When Ttomalss next telephoned her, a day later, she gave him a quick summary of her triumph. “I congratulate you, Kassquit,” he said. “You have routed a bully. May you have many further such successes, though I know Tessrek was your most difficult and annoying tormentor. With him defeated, you should have less trouble from now on.”
“I thank you, superior sir,” Kassquit said. “May you prove correct.” Then, having pressed Tessrek, she decided to press Ttomalss as well: “Have you had any luck in getting the Deutsche to revise their policy concerning ginger-smuggling?”
“I have not,” Ttomalss said. “I do not know if I have any hope of success there. Smuggling ginger is in the interest of the Deutsche because of the disruption it causes the Race.”
“Perhaps you should recruit Senior Researcher Felless to this cause,” Kassquit said, only a little acid in her voice. “It would surely be in her interest to see that ginger-smuggling was curtailed.”
“Er, yes—a clever notion,” Ttomalss said. Kassquit did not smile, because she’d lost that response in hatchlinghood: Ttomalss had not been able to smile back at her when she began smiling then. Had she been able to, though, she would have smiled now. She’d embarrassed him by reminding him he’d coupled with Felless. He deserves to be embarrassed, she thought. He will pay for that as long as I can make him do it.
Logically, her anger at Ttomalss made no sense. Felless had not even known what ginger would do to her when she tasted. Once he smelled her pheromones, Ttomalss could hardly have helped mating with her. But logic had very little to do with it. Kassquit still felt betrayed, and was still taking her vengeance.
Ttomalss said, “Perhaps another male, one more experienced in the ways of Tosev 3 than Felless, would be a more suitable partner in this endeavor.”
“Perhaps,” Kassquit said, making it plain she truly believed no such thing. “But was not Felless specially chosen for her expertise in aliens? Surely she would have more insight into the Deutsche than most males from the conquest fleet.”
“I do not believe it is possible to have insight into the Deutsche and to stay sane,” Ttomalss said. “A member of the Race may do one or the other, but not both.”
“They are Tosevites,” Kassquit said with a sniff, altogether forgetting her own blood. “Of course they are addled. What could you give them that would make them keep ginger to themselves?”
“Something else that would be disadvantageous to the Race,” Ttomalss answered. “I can conceive of the Deutsche making no other demand. They may be mad, but they are not such fools as to throw away something that hurts us without getting something else in return.”
“A pity,” Kassquit remarked. “Perhaps you can arrange to give them something that seems to be to their advantage but is not.”
“And what happens when they discover this?” Ttomalss asked. “They begin smuggling ginger again, no longer having any disincentive to restrain them.”
“Oh,” Kassquit said in a small voice. “I had not thought of that. It is truth, superior sir.” Regardless of whether she’d prevailed over Tessrek, she wasn’t going to be right all the time.
“Have general conditions on the ship grown more stable since last we talked?” Ttomalss asked. “I hope so. Being in Nuremberg is a trial, but, despite appearances, I do not expect to stay here forever.”
“Somewhat, but only somewhat,” Kassquit answered. “As I told you, I fear I was rude to Tessrek not long ago.” She did not fear that; she took an almost feral joy in it. The language of the Race, though, lent itself more readily to polite phrases.
Ttomalss said, “Tessrek is the only male I know whose central nervous system connects directly to his cloaca.” He waited for Kassquit to use the hand gesture that showed she thought he was right, then went on, “I hope you were thoroughly rude to the obnoxious obscurantist.”
“I believe so, yes.” Kassquit took a new pleasure in recounting in greater detail the exchange between the researcher and her, and yet another in watching Ttomalss laugh.
After he’d closed his mouth again, Ttomalss said, “Good for you. He has been insolent for too long. High time he truly learned he can no longer sharpen his claws on your hide with impunity.”
“I do thank you for your support, superior sir,” Kassquit said. “Lately, I have not had so much of that support as I might have liked. I am glad to see it return.”
“You need less support than you did at one time,” the male who had fostered her from hatchlinghood replied. “Your adolescence is nearly completed. Soon you will be an adult, as independent as any other.”
“Yes, superior sir,” Kassquit said dutifully, but she could not help adding, “An adult what? For I am not a Tosevite, not in any sense except my biology, but I cannot fully be a female of the Race, for that same biology prevents me from doing so.”
She did not think Ttomalss would have an answer for her; he never had before when she’d asked similar questions. But now he did: “An adult citizen of the Empire, Kassquit. Rabotevs and Hallessi are not members of the Race, either, but they reverence the Emperor, and spirits of Emperors past watch over them when they die. The same will be true for you in all respects.”
She tasted the words. “An adult citizen of the Empire,” she repeated. “I would b
e the first Tosevite citizen of the Empire, would I not?”
“You would indeed,” Ttomalss agreed. “By your actions—even by your standing up to a male who unjustly abused you—you have proved you deserve the designation. Eventually, all Tosevites will be citizens of the Empire. You will be remembered as the one who showed the way, as one who made a bridge between Tosevites on the one fork of the tongue and the Empire on the other.”
Kassquit’s tongue, as Tessrek had reminded her, had no fork. For the first time since she’d realized how different she was from everyone around her, she didn’t care. “It is good, superior sir,” she said to Ttomalss. She meant every word of it. For the first time since she’d realized how different she was, she knew her place again.
The telephone in David Goldfarb’s flat rang. Naomi, who was closer, went and answered it: “Hullo?” She paused, listening, then turned to her husband. “It’s for you, David.”
He got off the sofa. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know,” Naomi answered, a hand cupped over the mouthpiece. “Not a familiar voice . . . I don’t think.” She sounded a little doubtful.
With a shrug, he took the telephone. “Goldfarb here.”
“And I’m glad of it, old man,” the fellow on the other end of the line replied. “How are you and your lovely wife this evening?”
“Fine, thank you, Group Captain Roundbush,” Goldfarb answered tightly. He’d recognized that upper-crust accent at once, though Naomi would have heard it only a few times over the years. “What can I do for you, sir?” He knew, with a grim and mournful certainty, that Basil Roundbush had not rung him up to pass a few pleasant minutes.
“Funny you should ask that,” Roundbush said, though Goldfarb didn’t think it was funny at all. “There is a spot of work you could do for me, if you happen to feel like it.”
He made it sound as if he were truly asking a favor rather than giving a thinly veiled order. Maybe that amused him. It didn’t amuse David Goldfarb. “What have you got in mind, sir?” he asked. “Canvassing for Mosley’s bill, perhaps? A bit late for that, I’m afraid; it seems dead for this session of Parliament.” Naomi’s eyes got round.
“Why, so it does, and, if you want my opinion, a good thing, too,” Roundbush said. “Tell me the truth, Goldfarb: have I ever denigrated you on account of your faith? Ever in all the years we’ve known each other?”
“You’ve used me on account of my faith,” Goldfarb said. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Oh, but my dear fellow, that’s business. It’s not personal.” Roundbush sounded hurt that Goldfarb couldn’t make the distinction.
“It’s not just business when I’m so vulnerable to it.” Goldfarb wondered if he should have said that, but it couldn’t be anything Roundbush didn’t know. “You still haven’t told me what you want from me tonight.”
“Quite,” Roundbush said, which wasn’t an answer. “Perhaps we could meet tomorrow afternoon at that pub with the excellent Guinness—what was the name of the place again?—and discuss it there.”
“Robinsons,” Goldfarb said automatically.
“Right. See you at Robinsons, then, at half past five tomorrow.” The line went dead.
“What was that in aid of?” Naomi asked after David hung up, too.
“I don’t precisely know,” he answered. “Whatever it was, it was something the distinguished group captain”—he laced the words with as much sarcasm as he could—“didn’t care to discuss over the telephone wires. Which means, all too likely, it’s something that won’t stand the light of day.”
“Something to do with ginger,” Naomi said.
“I can’t think of any other business Roundbush is involved in that he doesn’t care to discuss over the telephone,” David said. “Of course, I don’t know all the business he’s involved in, either.”
“Can’t you stay away, then?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I wish I could, but you know it’s impossible as well as I do. I have to see what he wants—and see if I can talk him out of it.”
He got his chance the next evening, pulling up in front of Robinsons on his bicycle at exactly the appointed time in spite of a cold, nasty drizzle. When he went inside, he bought himself a whiskey—it didn’t seem a night for stout—and sat as close to the fire as he could get. He’d beaten Roundbush to the pub, which left him glowing with virtue—and hoping his superior wouldn’t show up.
But in Group Captain Roundbush came, dapper as ever, and sat down at the table with Goldfarb. “That’s not the worst idea anyone ever had,” he said, pointing to the whiskey, and ordered one for himself. When it came, he raised the glass high. “Here’s to you, old man.”
“You don’t need to butter me up, sir,” Goldfarb said. “Whatever it is you’ve got in mind, I’m probably stuck with it.”
“Now that’s a fine attitude!” Basil Roundbush said. “I’m about to offer the man an expense-paid holiday on the French Riviera—sounds all the better, doesn’t it, with the drips and trickles outside?—and he says he’s stuck with it. Plenty of chaps’d be happy to pay to go there, believe you me they would.”
“The German-occupied French Riviera?” Goldfarb’s shudder had nothing to do with the weather. “Yes, sir, that’s a splendid place to send a Jew. Why not pick one of your other chaps instead?”
“You’ll have a British passport,” Roundbush said patiently. “Or, if you’d rather, you can have an American one. Might even be better: plenty of gentiles in the States who look the way you do, so to speak. And you’re the right man for this job. You speak the Lizards’ language and you can get along in German with your Yiddish.”
“There is the small matter of French,” Goldfarb remarked.
“Small matter is right.” Roundbush remained imperturbable. “Anyone you need to talk to will speak German or the Lizards’ language or both. As I may have mentioned once or twice, we have a spot of trouble down there. Seems as if the Germans have got their claws into a chap who was a freelance operator who did a deal of business for us. Anything you can do to set things right will be greatly appreciated, on that you may rest assured.”
“What do you imagine I can do there that one of your other chaps couldn’t do a thousand times better?” Goldfarb asked.
“But, my dear fellow, you are one of our chaps,” Roundbush said. “You have a more personal interest in the success of your undertaking than anyone else we could send. Do you deny it?”
“I bloody well can’t deny it, not with you beggars soaring over my family and me like vultures over a dying sheep,” Goldfarb snarled. “You have the whip hand, and you’re not ashamed to use it.”
“You take things so personally,” Roundbush said. Unspoken but hanging in the air between them was, Just another excitable Jew.
“All right: I have an interest,” Goldfarb said. “What I haven’t got is any knowledge of your operation. How am I supposed to set it to rights if I can’t tell what’s right and what’s wrong?” That was a legitimate question. A not so legitimate thought tagged along behind it. If Roundbush gives me enough dirt about his pals, maybe I can bury them in it.
“I can tell you some of what you need to know,” Roundbush said. “I can also give you the names of people down there to ask. They’ll be able to tell you far more.” He signaled to a barmaid: “Two more whiskies, dear.” As soon as she’d gone off to fetch them, he turned back to Goldfarb. “So you’ll take it on, then?”
“What choice have I got?” David asked bitterly.
“A man always has choices,” Group Captain Roundbush replied. “Some may be better than others, but they’re always there.” Thanks so much, Goldfarb thought. Yes, I could stick a gun in my mouth and blow out my brains. That’s the sort you mean. Roundbush was going cheerfully along his own line of thought: “For instance, would you sooner carry a British passport or an American one?”
“With this accent?” Goldfarb shook his head. “No choice there. If I ever run into anyone who can tell the difference—
and I might—I’d be made out a liar in less time than it takes to tell.”
“Not necessarily. You could be a recent immigrant,” Roundbush said.
“I wish I were a recent immigrant,” Goldfarb said. “Then you couldn’t be twisting my arm like this.”
“Not personally,” the senior RAF man agreed. “As I told you when we had our last discussion about your possibly leaving the country, though, I do have colleagues in the same line of work on the other side of the Atlantic. They might need your services from time to time. And, because they don’t know at first hand what a sterling fellow you are, they might be rather more importunate than I am in requiring your assistance.”
Goldfarb had no trouble figuring out what that meant. “They’re a pack of American gangsters, and they’ll shoot me if I talk back.”
Basil Roundbush didn’t admit that. On the other hand, he didn’t deny it, either. Instead, he turned the subject, saying, “Jolly good to have you on board again. I expect you’ll do splendidly.”
“I expect I’ll make a bloody hash of it—or I would make a bloody hash of it if I dared, if something dreadful wouldn’t happen to my family,” Goldfarb said. He knocked back his new whiskey, which the barmaid had brought while he and Roundbush were talking. She’d damn near plopped herself down in Roundbush’s lap afterwards, too. After coughing a couple of times, David asked, “Tell me something, sir: did you and your chums blow the ships from the colonization fleet out of the sky?”
He had, for once, succeeded in startling the normally imperturbable Roundbush. “Oh, good heavens, no!” the group captain exclaimed. “We can do a great many interesting things—far be it from me to deny that—but we have no satellites and no direct control over any explosive metal even here on Earth.”
Did he say no direct control because he wanted to imply indirect control? Very likely, Goldfarb judged. He wondered if the implication held any truth. He hoped not. “Do you know who did attack the colonization fleet?” If you do—especially if it’s the Reich, I can pass that on to the Lizards. Doing Heinrich Himmler a bad turn was reason enough and to spare for going down to Marseille.
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