17
Kassquit pondered the computer screen in front of her. She often kept one eye turret turned toward discussions about objects in orbit around Tosev 3 (so she thought of it, though she, of course, had no eye turrets and usually had to turn her whole head to see something). This was, after all, the environment in which she’d spent her whole life. It was the environment in which she would likely spend the rest of her life. Tracking what went on here mattered to her.
After the disaster that befell the colonization fleet, Kassquit paid more attention than she had to discussions about Tosevite space objects. Before that attack, she’d wanted nothing to do with the species of which she was biologically a part. She still didn’t, not really, but she’d had to realize the wild Tosevites were dangerous to her. Their missiles could have vaporized her ship as easily as one from the colonization fleet. Only chance had put her on the opposite side of the planet from the ships that were destroyed. Chance, to a member of the Race (or even to a Tosevite trained to act like a member of the Race), did not seem protection enough.
Little by little and then more and more, the messages of a male named Regeya drew her notice. They stood out for a couple of reasons: Regeya seemed quite well informed about the doings of the not-empire called the United States, and he wrote oddly. Most males and females sounded very much alike, but he spiced his messages with peculiar turns of phrase and hardly seemed to notice he was doing it.
Those qualities finally prompted her to send him a private message. Who are you? she wrote. What is your rank? How have you become so knowledgeable about these Big Uglies? She did not ask him why he wrote strangely. She was strange herself, in ways more intimate than writing quirks. But, in writing, her strangeness didn’t show. That was another reason she cherished computer discussions: males and females who couldn’t see her assumed she was normal.
Regeya took his time about answering. Just when Kassquit began to wonder if he would answer at all—he would have been within his rights, though on the abrupt side, to ignore her—he did send a reply: I am a senior tube technician. The American Big Uglies taught me, and were so interesting, I got hooked on them. She admired the phrase for a moment before reading his last sentence: Other than that, I am an ordinary male. What about you?
“What about me?” Kassquit asked rhetorically. She wrote, I am a junior researcher in Tosevite psychology, which comes close to addling me. That was all true, and proved truth could be the best deception. She added, You have an interesting way of writing, and sent the message.
Wondering just what a senior tube technician did and what his body paint looked like, she checked a data store. The answer came back in moments: there was no such classification as senior tube technician. As usual, her face showed little expression, but she found that puzzling. She checked the computer to see how many Regeyas had come to Tosev 3 with the conquest fleet: the male showed too much knowledge of American Tosevites to belong to the colonization fleet, or so it seemed to her.
In short order, the answer came back. Unless the computer was mistaken, only one male bearing that name had belonged to the conquest fleet, and he had been killed in the early days of the invasion. Kassquit checked the records for the colonization fleet. They showed two Regeyas. One had been a bureaucrat aboard a ship destroyed in the attack on the fleet. The other, a graphic designer, was newly revived. Kassquit checked past messages in the discussion section. Regeya, whoever he was, had sent messages while the graphic designer remained in cold sleep.
“That is very strange,” Kassquit said, a considerable understatement. She wondered what to do next.
While she was wondering, a message from Regeya—from the mysterious Regeya, she thought—reached her. Tosevites are strange creatures, but not so bad once you get to know them, he wrote, and then, I write with my fingerclaws, the same as everybody else.
Kassquit would have forgiven him a good deal for his kind words about Big Uglies. He, of course, whoever he was, could have no way of knowing she’d been hatched (no, born: a thoroughly disgusting process) one herself. And she liked his strange slant on the world. But he was not who and what he pretended to be. Such deceptions, she had gathered, were common among the Tosevites, but rarely practiced by members of the Race.
What does a senior tube technician do? she wrote, hoping that in answering he would betray himself.
But his reply was altogether matter-of-fact: I tell intermediate and junior tube technicians what to do. What would you expect?
She stared at the screen. Her mouth fell open. That was laughter in the style of the Race. In the privacy of her chamber, she also laughed aloud, as Big Uglies did. Whoever this Regeya was, he had both wit and nerve.
But who was he? Why was he using a name not his own? She could find no good reason. Nothing in the discussions in which he took part could gain him any profit, only, at most, a little information. Unable to solve the problem herself, she mentioned it to Ttomalss the next time they spoke.
“I can think of two possibilities,” the senior researcher said. “One is that he is indeed a male of the Race using a false name for deceptive purposes of his own. The other is that he is a Tosevite who has partially penetrated our computer system.”
“A Tosevite!” Kassquit exclaimed. That had not occurred to her—nor would it have. “Could a Big Ugly seem like a male of the Race in discussion groups and electronic messages?”
“Why not?” Ttomalss asked. “You certainly seem like a female of the Race whenever your physiognomy is not visible.”
“But that is different,” Kassquit said. “This Regeya, by your hypothesis, would be a wild Big Ugly, not one civilized from birth, as I have been.” She heard the pride in her voice.
“We have been studying the Tosevites since our arrival here,” Ttomalss said. “Indeed, thanks to our probe, we studied them before we arrived here—although, as events proved, not well enough. And they have been studying us, too. Some of them, I suppose, will have learned a good deal about us by now.”
“Learned enough to imitate us that well?” Kassquit had trouble believing it. She’d not only taken this Regeya for a male of the Race, she’d taken him for a clever one. He had an unusual way of looking at the world, one that made her see things in a new light. But perhaps that sprang not from cleverness but from an alienness he couldn’t fully conceal. She said as much to Ttomalss.
“It could be so,” he answered. “I will not say that it is, but it could be. I fear you will have to conduct that investigation for yourself. I am too occupied with matters here to lend you much assistance. Felless will soon be laying her pair of eggs—she stubbornly refuses to leave Deutschland, despite possible health hazards—and will not be able to do as much work as usual for a little while before she finally does. That means I will have to do some of hers as well as my own.”
“Very well, superior sir,” Kassquit said coolly. To her, Felless remained an unscratchable itch deep under the scales she did not have. “I shall attempt to draw out this Regeya, whoever and whatever he may be, and to see exactly what information he is seeking. Armed with that knowledge, I may be able to convince the authorities to take me seriously.”
“I approve of this course,” Ttomalss said, and broke the connection. Kassquit wasn’t sure she approved of it. Being a Tosevite, would she be able to convince the authorities to take her seriously no matter what she did? She was not looking forward to the experiment, but saw no alternative.
Meanwhile, she had the chance to converse with Regeya and monitor his messages to learn what interested him. He knew where he wanted to sink his claws, that was plain: he aimed to learn all he could about whatever the Race knew of the American space station. That puzzled Kassquit. If he was a Big Ugly himself, why wouldn’t he know such things?
Her first assumption had been that, if he was a Tosevite, he was an American—how else would he know so much about the United States? Then she began to wonder. She supposed the Big Uglies spied on one another as well as on the Race. Was Re
geya from the Reich or the SSSR, seeking what the Race knew about a rival?
She couldn’t ask him that, not in so many words. She did ask, How and why do you know so much about these particular Big Uglies?
In due course, Regeya answered, I have followed their doings since they freed me after the fighting stopped. The Race and the Big Uglies will be sharing this planet for a long time. Sooner or later, Tosevites will travel to other worlds of the Empire, as Rabotevs and Hallessi will come here. We and the Big Uglies had better get to know each other, do you not think? After the interrogative character, he used the Race’s conventional symbol for an emphatic cough.
Kassquit studied that. No matter who—or what sort of being—had written it, it made good sense. Truth, she replied.
Some in the discussion group reported that the Americans were again increasing the number of shipments up to their station. No one can tell what they are shipping, though, the male who sent the message said. Whatever it is, it stays crated until inside the station. This is inefficient even by Tosevite standards.
What are the Big Uglies hiding? Regeya asked on noting that message.
If they were not hiding it, we would know, the male who had sent the earlier message replied. Kassquit laughed to see that. The message continued, Whatever it is, we know enough always to keep an eye turret on that station.
A good thing, too, Regeya replied.
Kassquit made a small, exasperated sound. Would an American Big Ugly have said such a thing? Would any Big Ugly have said such a thing? Didn’t the Big Uglies know enough to show solidarity against the Race, as the Race showed solidarity against them? She knew the Big Uglies did not show solidarity among themselves, but still . . .
Finally, curiosity got the better of her. Are you a Tosevite? she sent to Regeya.
If he was, she thought that had a decent chance of scaring him out of the Race’s computer network. But she did not have to wait long for his reply. Of course I am, he answered. Just as much as you are.
She stared at that. Her heart fluttered. Did Regeya, could Regeya, know who and what she was? He would have to have excellent connections indeed to gain even a hint of that. And Kassquit, unlike Regeya, was a fairly common name. Or was he just making a joke? She had gathered he was fond of joking.
What do I tell him? she wondered. By the Emperor—dutifully, she cast down her eyes—what do I tell him?
What if I am? she wrote back.
We would both be surprised, Regeya replied, again very quickly. He had to be waiting at the computer for her messages. What is your telephone code? he asked. Perhaps we need to discuss this in person. Kassquit was appalled. Even if she left the vision blank, Regeya would be able to hear that she did not fully belong to the Race.
I would rather leave things as they are, she wrote. She knew that was rude, but better to be rude than to betray herself.
As you wish, Regeya answered promptly. We may be more alike than you think. Kassquit made the negative hand gesture. Whether Regeya belonged to the Race or to the Tosevites, she would not be much like him. She was sure of that.
Getting back into space felt good to Glen Johnson. After his run-in with Lieutenant General Curtis LeMay, he’d wondered if his superiors would let him ride Peregrine again. But nobody else at the Kitty Hawk launch site had said boo to him about LeMay’s appalling visit to the BOQ. It was as if the general had delivered his tongue-lashing and then cleared out without mentioning it to anybody, which was possible but not in accord with the usual habits of general officers. Johnson had feared his career would be blighted for good.
His orbit was lower and therefore faster than that of the American space station. Whenever he passed below it, he paid close attention to the radio chatter coming from it. The traffic told him the station was getting yet another new load of surprises, which didn’t surprise him. So many bus drivers were going up there, the Greyhound lines probably had to shut down half their routes.
He couldn’t tell what the supplies were. That didn’t surprise him, either. If he heard exactly what was going on up there, the Lizards and the Germans and the Russians would, too. He didn’t want that. But he did want to know what was going on.
One thing he could tell, both by radar and by spotting scope: whatever those supplies were, the crew aboard the space station wasn’t letting them go to waste. Sometimes he thought it looked bigger than it had on his previous pass each time he caught up with it. It was as big as one of the Lizards’ starships these days, and showed no signs of slowing its growth.
“What the hell are they doing up there?” he asked a universe that did not answer. Construction in vacuum and weightlessness wasn’t easy, but the station kept shifts going around the clock.
He couldn’t ignore everything else in space, much as he would have liked to. During his tour, Peenemünde launched a couple of A-45s and brought the manned upper stages back to Earth quite a bit faster than was their usual practice. Anything out of the ordinary was suspicious, as far as Johnson was concerned—and as far as his superiors were concerned, too, even if they didn’t seem suspicious about what was going on at the American space station.
He tried pumping the Nazi spacemen about what their bosses were up to. That was doctrine. The Germans didn’t tell him doodly-squat, which was doubtless part of their doctrine. They tried pumping him about the U.S. space station, too.
“Dammit, Drucker, I don’t know what’s going on up there,” he told one of his German opposite numbers when the fellow got not just nosy but pushy to boot. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”
Drucker laughed. “And you so angry with me got when I told you the same thing. I do not know what we are here with these test launches doing.”
Listening to the Germans, Johnson had discovered, was a matter of staying patient till they got around to the verb. He laughed, too, but sourly. “Yeah, but the difference between us is that I know I’m telling the truth, but I’ve got the nasty feeling you’re lying to me.”
“I speak truth,” Drucker declared, with a burst of static warning that they were drifting out of radio range of each other. “It is you Americans who are liars.” More static gave him the last word in the argument.
“Screw him,” Johnson muttered, and then, “On second thought, no thanks. I didn’t come up here to be Mata Hari.” Spying with his eyes and ears and instruments was one thing. Using his fair white body . . . Again, his laugh was less than wholehearted. Nobody, Nazi pilot or good old American waitress or secretary or schoolteacher, had shown much interest in his fair white body lately.
He brought the Peregrine down to a good landing—about as smooth as he’d ever managed—at Kitty Hawk and then went through debriefing. He remarked that the Germans were curious about what was going on up at the space station. The major taking notes just nodded and waited for him to say something else. If the fellow knew anything, he wasn’t talking.
After a while, Johnson ran dry about the Germans and Russians and Lizards in space. The first debriefer left. His replacement came in and started grilling the spaceman about the changes the mechanics and technicians had made in Peregrine since his last flight. He had answers and opinions, some of them strong ones, about those modifications.
When they finally let him go, he thought about heading for the bar for a bit of high-proof tension relief. Instead, he went back to the BOQ. He was shaking his head as he did it—Christ, don’t I even have the energy to go buy myself a drink?—but the direction in which he kept walking argued that he didn’t.
He took a shower, then went back to his room and flopped down on the bed. Instead of falling asleep, which he’d thought he would do, he lay there for a bit, then pulled a Hornblower novel out of the GI nightstand by the bed and started to read. Things had been simple back in Hornblower’s day, with only people to worry about.
The telephone on the nightstand rang, making him jump. He didn’t like jumping, especially not when he was just back in full gravity. He picked up the phone and said, �
�Johnson.”
“Lieutenant Colonel, I’m Major Sam Yeager, calling from Los Angeles,” the voice on the other end of the line said. He sounded as if he was calling from the other end of the country; there weren’t so many hisses and pops on the line as there would have been before the Lizards came, but enough to notice remained.
“What can I do for you, Major?” Johnson asked. Yeager’s name seemed vaguely familiar. After a moment, he placed it: a hotshot expert on the Lizards.
He expected Yeager to ask him about dealing with the Race in space. Instead, the fellow came straight out of left field: “Lieutenant Colonel, if you don’t mind my asking, did you by any chance get your ass chewed by General LeMay not so long ago?”
“How the hell did you know that?” Johnson sat up so suddenly, he knocked the Hornblower novel onto the floor.
Across three thousand miles, Major Yeager chuckled. “Because I’m in the same boat—and I think it’s the Titanic. General LeMay gets ants in his pants when people start asking about the space station, doesn’t he?”
“He sure does. He—” Johnson shut up with a snap. He suddenly realized he had only Yeager’s assurance that he was who and what he said he was. For all he knew, Yeager—or somebody claiming to be Yeager—might be one of LeMay’s spies, trying to catch him in an indiscretion and sink him like a battleship. In a tight voice, he said, “I don’t think I’d better talk about that.”
“I’m not after your scalp, Lieutenant Colonel,” Yeager said. Johnson went right on saying nothing. With a sigh, Yeager went on, “I don’t like this any better than you do. Whatever’s going on up there smells fishy to me. The Lizards have it on their minds, too, and I don’t like that for beans. We could end up in big trouble on account of this.”
That matched perfectly with what Glen Johnson thought: so perfectly that it made him suspicious. He picked his words with care: “Major, I don’t know you. I’m not going to talk about this business with somebody who’s only a voice.”
Second Contact Page 59
