Homeward Bound

by Harry Turtledove

  Kassquit nodded back with that same wary politeness. “I greet you,” the half-alien woman said.

  “And I greet you,” Karen answered. “I hope you are well and happy?”

  “I am well, yes. I thank you for asking.” Kassquit considered the rest of the question. “Happy? Who can say for certain? There certainly were times in the past when I was more unhappy.”

  What was that supposed to mean? “Ah?” Karen said: the most noncommittal noise she could make, but one that invited Kassquit to keep talking if she wanted to.

  She must have, for she went on, “I suppose even ordinary wild Tosevites are often unhappy when they are young, for they do not yet know how they will fit into their society.” She paused. Karen made the affirmative gesture; that was true enough. Kassquit continued, “It was, I think, worse for me, for I knew I did not fit in at all, not in biology, not in appearance, not in speaking—not in anything, really—and I was often reminded of this. No, I was not happy.”

  Karen felt ashamed of disliking Kassquit. No other human being in the history of the world had gone through what Kassquit had. And a good thing, too, Karen thought. “And now?” she asked.

  “Now I have a place of my own. I have some acceptance—even the Emperor does not find me altogether unworthy. And I am not completely cut off from my biological heritage, as I was for so long.”

  Again, what did she mean? That she and Frank Coffey were fooling around, as Jonathan had said? Karen couldn’t think of anything else that seemed likely. She surprised herself when she nodded again and said, “Good.”

  Atvar heard from Ttomalss that Kassquit and the wild Big Ugly had become physically intimate. “We instructed her not to do this. What is it likely to mean, Senior Researcher?” he inquired. “Will she abandon us for the Americans?”

  “I do not believe so, Exalted Fleetlord,” Ttomalss replied. “This is just another complication, not—I hope—a catastrophe.”

  “Just another complication.” Atvar let out a weary, hissing sigh. “I have heard those words or words much like them too often for my peace of mind.” He laughed. “I remember when I once had peace of mind.”

  “Before you went to Tosev 3?” Ttomalss asked.

  “Certainly,” Atvar said. “Not afterwards, by the spirits of Emperors past!” He cast down his eye turrets. “Never afterwards.”

  “I believe that, Exalted Fleetlord,” the psychologist said. “And, all things considered, you were fairly lucky. The Big Uglies never captured you.”

  “That is a truth.” Atvar had forgotten about Ttomalss’ ordeal. He returned to the business before him: “Ironic that Kassquit should form this attachment so soon after her audience with the Emperor.”

  “Indeed,” Ttomalss said morosely. “I asked her about this myself, in fact. She said the audience was a source of pride, but the liaison was a source of satisfaction. Tosevite sexuality is different from ours, and there is nothing much to be done about it.”

  That was another truth. The Race had wasted a lot of time and energy on Tosev 3 trying to get the Big Uglies to change their customs before deciding it was wasting its time and energy. The Tosevites were not going to change what they did, any more than the Race would.

  The fleetlord wished that thought hadn’t occurred to him. Ginger had made a significant part of the Race change its sexual patterns. Atvar let out a sudden, thoughtful hiss. “Do you know, Senior Researcher, I believe we may have missed a chance on Tosev 3.”

  “In what way?” Ttomalss asked.

  “I wonder if, through drugs, we might make the Big Uglies’ sexual patterns more like ours and those of the other species in the Empire,” Atvar said. “As far as I know, this was never investigated.”

  “I believe you are right, Exalted Fleetlord,” Ttomalss said. “The work might prove worthwhile. If you send a message now, researchers there can begin experimenting before too many more years have passed.”

  “I may propose that,” Atvar said. “If they find such a drug, well and good. If they fail to find it, we are no worse off.”

  “Just so.” Ttomalss made the affirmative gesture. “And now, if you will excuse me . . . I did want to let you know about Kassquit’s situation.”

  “For which I thank you.” Atvar laughed again, sourly. “Though why I should thank you for exercising my liver is beyond me. This is one of those times when politeness and truth part company, I fear.”

  “I understand.” Ttomalss left the fleetlord’s room.

  The psychologist could go. The problem he had posed would stay. He had to be annoyed that Kassquit would choose her biological heritage over her cultural one. As far as Atvar could tell, though, that was the extent of Ttomalss’ annoyance. He didn’t have to worry about the effect Kassquit’s possible shift of allegiance would have on negotiations with the wild Big Uglies.

  Atvar thought about commanding her to stop mating with Frank Coffey. Only the suspicion—the near certainty—that she would ignore such a command held him back. She was no less headstrong than any wild Tosevite. Stubbornness, especially about sexual matters, was in their blood. He also thought about removing her from his party and sending her halfway round the world.

  He could do that. He had the authority. But it would mean depriving the Race of Kassquit’s insights into the way Tosevites functioned. At the moment, she was demonstrating how they functioned. Atvar wondered if that had even occurred to her. He doubted it. Tosevites let their sexual desires dictate their behavior to a degree the Race found ridiculous and unimaginable—except during mating season, at which time males and females had their minds on other things.

  “No,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. He would keep Kassquit here in Sitneff. That might mean he would have to weigh carefully anything she said about the American Tosevites. Fair enough. Weighing data was something he was good at. He realized he would also have to weigh what he got from Ttomalss, who would not be anything close to objective about his former ward.

  Sending a message to Tosev 3 was another matter. Atvar no longer had authority to do it on his own. He hadn’t since his recall. But altering the Big Uglies’ sexuality might be important. He was even willing to go through channels to make sure the idea reached the distant colony.

  He was willing, yes, but he wasn’t enthusiastic. Years of handling affairs on Tosev 3 himself as the Emperor’s autonomous viceroy had left him impatient with the idea of gaining others’ permission before acting. He was convinced he knew enough to do what needed doing on his own. Anyone who thought otherwise had to be misguided.

  Of course, the entire cumbersome bureaucracy here on Home had eventually decided otherwise. Atvar remained convinced those bureaucrats were fools. When he talked to them here, he did his best not to show it. Ttomalss was right—this was an important idea. It was even more important than getting even with the bunglers who’d recalled him. So he told himself, anyhow.

  His Majesty’s chief scientific adviser was a female named Yendiss. She heard Atvar out and then asked, “What assurance do you have that researchers can actually discover or synthesize a drug of this sort?”

  “Assurance? Why, none,” Atvar answered. “But I have one contrary assurance to offer you, superior female.”

  “Oh?” Yendiss said. “And that is?”

  “If researchers do not look for a drug of this sort, they are guaranteed not to find it,” Atvar said.

  In the monitor, Yendiss’ eye turrets swung sharply toward him. “Are you being sarcastic, Fleetlord?” she demanded.

  “Not at all.” Atvar made the negative gesture. “I thought I was stating a simple and obvious truth. If such a drug is there to be found, we ought to find it. Making the Big Uglies more like us would reduce some acute sociological strains on Tosev 3. It would make assimilating the Tosevites much easier. Is that not an important consideration?”

  The scientific adviser did not answer directly. Instead, she asked, “Do you have any idea how expensive this research might be?”

&nbs
p; “No, superior female,” Atvar answered resignedly. “But whatever it costs, I am convinced making it will be cheaper than not making it.”

  “Send me a memorandum,” Yendiss said. “Make it as detailed as possible, listing costs and benefits.” By the way she said that, she plainly thought costs the more important consideration. “Once I have something in writing, I can submit it to specialists for their analysis and input.”

  “It shall be done.” Atvar broke the connection. He let out a loud, frustrated hiss. The Race had done business like this for a hundred thousand years. That was fine—when the business had nothing to do with the Big Uglies. How many years would go by before the specialists made up their minds? Yendiss wouldn’t care. She would say getting the right answer was the most important thing.

  Sometimes, though, the right answer seemed obvious. Getting it quickly began to matter. Anyone who’d dealt with Tosev 3 knew that. How many centuries had the Race spent preparing the conquest fleet after its probe showed that the Big Uglies were ripe for the taking? Enough so that, by the time the conquest fleet arrived, the Tosevites weren’t ripe any more.

  Would this be more of the same? “Not if I have anything to do with it,” Atvar declared, and made another call.

  Before long, the imperial protocol master looked out of a monitor at him. “I greet you, Fleetlord,” Herrep said. “I doubt this is strictly a social call, so what do you want of me?”

  “I would like to speak with the Emperor for a little while,” Atvar replied. “This has to do with affairs on Tosev 3.”

  “Are you trying to leap over some functionary who obstructs you?” Herrep asked.

  “In a word, yes.”

  “His Majesty rarely lets himself be used that way,” the protocol master warned.

  “If he refuses, I am no worse off, though the Race may be,” Atvar said. “He does see the Big Uglies as a real problem for the Race, though, which not many here seem to do. Please forward my request to him, if you would be so kind. Let him decide. I believe it is important.”

  “Very well, Fleetlord,” Herrep said. “Please note that I guarantee nothing. The decision is in the grip of his Majesty’s fingerclaws.”

  “I understand, and I thank you,” Atvar answered. “Whatever he chooses, I shall accept.” Of course I shall. What choice have I got?

  The protocol master broke the connection. Too late, Atvar realized Herrep hadn’t said when he would forward the request to the Emperor or how long it might be till Risson called back—if he did. A delay of a few days wouldn’t matter. A delay of a few months or even a few years wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary for the Race. That kind of delay might be unfortunate, but who without firsthand experience of the Big Uglies would realize exactly how unfortunate it might be?

  Atvar’s telephone hissed frequently. Whenever it did, he hoped it would be the Emperor returning his call. Whenever it wasn’t, he felt an unreasonable stab of disappointment. And then, four days after he’d spoken with Herrep, it was. The female on the line spoke without preamble: “Assume the posture of respect so you may hear his Majesty’s words.”

  “It shall be done,” Atvar replied, and he did it. The female disappeared from the monitor. The 37th Emperor Risson’s image replaced her. Atvar said, “I greet you, your Majesty. I am honored to have the privilege of conversation with you.”

  “Rise, Fleetlord. Tell me what is on your mind,” Risson replied. He sometimes stood on hardly more ceremony than the Big Uglies did. “Herrep seems to think you have come up with something interesting.”

  “I hope so, your Majesty.” Atvar explained.

  Risson heard him out, then asked, “What are the chances for success?”

  “I would not care to guess about them, because I have no idea,” Atvar replied. “But they must be much greater than zero: our biochemists are skilled, and on Tosev 3 they will have studied the Big Uglies’ metabolism for many years. If we do not make the effort, what hope do we have of success? That I can guess: none.”

  “Truth,” Risson said. “Very well. You have persuaded me. I shall issue the necessary orders to pass this idea on to our colony on Tosev 3. Let us see what the colonists do with it. If the Big Uglies were more like us, they would certainly be easier to assimilate. We should do all we can to try to bring that about.”

  “I think you are right, your Majesty, and I thank you very much,” Atvar said. “You will also have seen for yourself by now how little inclined toward compromise the wild Big Uglies are. This may eventually give us a new weapon against them, one we can use when we would hesitate to bring out our bombs.”

  “Let us hope so, anyhow,” the Emperor said. “Is there anything more?” When Atvar made the negative gesture, Risson broke the connection. He does take the Big Uglies seriously, Atvar thought. If only more males and females did.

  Dr. Melanie Blanchard poked and prodded Sam Yeager. She looked in his ears and down his throat. She listened to his chest and lungs. She took his blood pressure. She put on a rubber glove and told him to bend over. “Are you sure we need a doctor here?” he asked.

  She laughed. “I’ve never known anybody who enjoys this,” she said. “I do know it’s necessary, especially for a man your age. Or do you really want to mess around with the possibility of prostate cancer?”

  With a sigh, Sam assumed the position. The examination was just as much fun as he remembered. He said, “Suppose I’ve got it. What can you do about it here?”

  “X rays, certainly,” Dr. Blanchard answered. “Chemotherapy, possibly, if we can get the Race to synthesize the agents we’d need. Or maybe surgery, with Lizard physicians assisting me. I’m sure some of them would be fascinated.” She took off the glove and threw it away. “Doesn’t look like we need to worry about that, though.”

  “Well, good.” Sam straightened up and did his best to restore his dignity. “How do I check out?”

  “You’re pretty good,” she said. “I’d like it if your blood pressure were a little lower than 140/90, but that’s not bad for a man your age. Not ideal, but not bad. You used to be an athlete, didn’t you?”

  “A ballplayer,” he answered. “Never made the big leagues, but I put in close to twenty years in the minors. You could do that before the Lizards came. I’ve tried to stay in halfway decent shape since.”

  “You’ve done all right,” Dr. Blanchard told him. “I wouldn’t recommend that you go out and run a marathon, but you seem to be okay for all ordinary use.”

  “I’ll take that,” Sam said. “Thanks very much for the checkup—or for most of it, anyhow.”

  “You’re welcome.” She started to laugh. Sam raised an eyebrow. She explained, “I started to tell you, ‘My pleasure,’ but that isn’t right. I don’t enjoy doing that, no matter how necessary it is.”

  “Well, good,” he said again, and got another laugh from her. She packed up her supplies and walked out of his room. Sam laughed, too, though he was damned if he was sure it was funny. The closest, most intimate physical contact he’d had with a woman since his wife died—and he’d been on the wrong end of a rubber glove. If that wasn’t mortifying, he didn’t know what would be.

  He didn’t usually worry about such things. He didn’t usually get reminded about them quite so openly, though. He was still a man. His parts did still work. He laughed once more. They would work, anyhow, if he could find himself some company.

  Major Coffey had managed. Sam shrugged. No accounting for taste. Kassquit had always fascinated him, but he’d never thought she was especially attractive. He shrugged again. Jonathan would have told him he was wrong—and Karen would have hit Jonathan for telling him that.

  Someone knocked on the door. That meant an American stood in the hall. A Lizard would have pressed the button for the door hisser. Sam looked around. Had Dr. Blanchard forgotten something? he wondered hopefully. He didn’t see anything that looked medical. Too bad.

  He opened the door. There stood Tom de la Rosa. Sam aimed an accusing forefinger at him
. “you’re not a beautiful woman,” he said.

  De la Rosa rubbed his mustache. “With this on my upper lip, I’m not likely to be one, either.”

  “Well, come on in anyhow,” Sam said. “I’ll try not to hold it against you.”

  “I’m so relieved.” Tom walked past Yeager and over to the window. “You’ve got a nicer view than we do. See what you get for being ambassador?”

  Sam had come to take the view for granted. Now he looked at it with fresher eyes. It was pretty impressive, in a stark, Southwestern way. “Reminds me a little of Tucson, or maybe Albuquerque.”

  “Somewhere in there,” Tom de la Rosa agreed. “If we don’t get what we need here, you know, Tucson and Albuquerque are going to look a lot more like this. They look a lot more like this now than they did when we went into cold sleep.”

  “I do know that,” Sam said. “Arizona and New Mexico are just about perfect country for plants and animals from Home.”

  “And if they crowd ours out, I don’t know how we’re going to get rid of them,” Tom said. “The Lizards don’t show a whole lot of give on this one.”

  “You’ve got that wrong,” Sam said. De la Rosa sent him a questioning look. He spelled out what he meant: “The Lizards don’t show any give at all on this one. As far as they’re concerned, they’re just making themselves at home—or at Home—on Earth.”

  De la Rosa winced at the audible capital letter. When he recovered, he said, “But it’s not right, dammit. They’ve got no business imposing their ecology on us.”

  “Starlings and English sparrows in the United States. And Kentucky bluegrass. And Russian thistle, which is what a lot of tumbleweeds are,” Sam said mournfully. “Rats in Hawaii. Mongooses—or is it mongeese?—too. Rabbits and cats and cane toads in Australia. I could go on. It’s not as if we haven’t done it to ourselves.”