The pungent irony there forced a laugh from Ttomalss, who also could hardly deny Felless’ words held some truth. “No, no songs of praise,” he agreed, laughing still. And, after some thought, he continued, “That may well be a cogent analysis, superior female. It may indeed. As always, experimental data would be desirable, but the superstructure of your thought certainly appears logical.”
“For which I thank you,” Felless replied. She sounded more cordial toward him than she had for some time. On the other fork of the tongue, he hadn’t praised her much lately, either. She was a female who took praise seriously.
In musing tones, Ttomalss said, “You might provoke some interesting responses if you were to publish that thesis in a Tosevite psychological journal.”
“For which I do not thank you.” Felless used an emphatic cough. “I have enough difficulties with Big Uglies as is to want to avoid more, not to provoke them.”
“Very well.” Ttomalss shrugged. “I thought you might find it amusing to watch the allegedly learned Tosevites banding together to destroy you with overheated rhetoric.”
“Again, no,” Felless said. “The trouble with Big Uglies is, they might not stop with overheated rhetoric. If I upset them badly enough, they might try to destroy me with explosives. Is it not a truth that the followers of the male called Khomeini still raise a rebellion against us despite his capture and imprisonment?”
“Yes, that is a truth,” Ttomalss admitted. “But they remain imprisoned in the grip of superstition. Contributors to psychological journals, even Tosevite psychological journals, have a more rational outlook.”
“I do not care to test this experimentally,” Felless said. “And here is my suggestion for you, Senior Researcher: since Kassquit will be influenced by her peers, you would do well to persuade her that her true peers are males and females of the Race, not the barbaric Big Uglies on the surface of Tosev 3. And now, if you will excuse me . . .” She disappeared from the video screen.
Even so, Ttomalss protested, “But I have always done my best to persuade her of that.” And it had worked. It still worked, to a point. Ttomalss couldn’t imagine Kassquit betraying the Race in any truly important matter. But the sexual bond she’d so quickly established with Jonathan Yeager formed the basis of a social intimacy with him different from the sort she’d established with the Race.
I wonder if I ought to arrange a new sexual partner for her, he thought. That might lessen her despondence over the departure of the wild Big Ugly. But it might also present new and more serious problems. Solving one difficulty with Tosevites all too often did produce another worse one. The whole world of Tosev 3 was a large, unexpected difficulty, or rather a multitude of them.
He dictated a note to himself so he would not forget the possibility, then returned to analyzing the recordings of Kassquit’s conversations with Jonathan Yeager. At one point, she’d asked him, “Would you not like to spend all your time living and working among the Race?” Ttomalss suspected she meant, Would you not like to spend all your time staying with me?
“If I could do it in the service of my not-empire, then maybe,” the wild Tosevite male had answered. “But I would like to have some of my species around for the sake of company. We are too different from the Race to be very comfortable with its members all the time.”
Was that U.S. propaganda, countering the Race’s propaganda that formed the only indoctrination Kassquit had had till Jonathan Yeager’s arrival? Or was it simply his view of where the truth lay? If so, was he right?
Ttomalss feared he was. No wild Rabotev or Hallessi would ever have said such a thing. The other two species in the Empire had been on the same road as the Race; they just hadn’t gone so far along it when the conquest fleets got to their planets. The Big Uglies had been going in another direction altogether when the Race arrived.
That so many of them were still going in a different direction told how strong their impetus had been. And yet the direction was not so different as it had been before the conquest fleet came; it was the resultant of their former course and that which the Race tried to impose on them. Which component of the vector would prove stronger in the end remained to be seen.
The telephone hissed for attention. “Senior Researcher Ttomalss speaking,” Ttomalss said. “I greet you.”
“I greet you, superior sir.” Kassquit’s image appeared in the screen.
“Hello, Kassquit.” Ttomalss did his best to disguise his concern. “How may I help you?” How was he supposed to analyze her behavior if she kept subjecting him to it?
“I do not know. I doubt anyone knows.”
“If you do not know how I can help you, why did you call me?” Ttomalss asked in some irritation. He didn’t expect a rational answer. He’d had several similar conversations with Kassquit since Jonathan Yeager departed for the surface of Tosev 3.
“I am sorry, superior sir,” she said, something he’d heard a great many times before. “But I have no one else with whom I might speak.”
That, unfortunately, was a truth. And it was a truth of Ttomalss’ own creation. He sighed. He recognized the obligation under which it placed him. “Very well,” he answered. “Say what you will.”
“I do not know what to say,” Kassquit wailed. “I feel as if my place in this society is not what I thought it was before I made the acquaintance of the wild Big Ugly.”
“That is not a truth.” Ttomalss appended an emphatic cough. “Your place here has not changed in the slightest.”
“Then I have changed, for I do not feel as if I fit that place any more,” Kassquit said.
“Ah.” That, for once, was something Ttomalss could get his teeth into. “Many males from the conquest fleet have similar feelings in trying to reintegrate with the more numerous members of the colonization fleet. Their time on Tosev 3 and their dealings with Tosevites have changed them so much, they no longer find the old ways of our society congenial. Something like this seems to have happened to you.”
“Yes!” Now his Tosevite ward used an emphatic cough of her own. “How is this syndrome cured?”
By all appearances, it wasn’t always curable. Ttomalss had no intention of admitting that. He said, “The chief anodyne is the passage of time.” He had also heard this was true of the aftermath of brief Tosevite sexual relationships, another point he carefully did not bring up.
Kassquit’s shoulders slumped. “I shall try to be patient, superior sir.”
“That is all you can do, I fear,” Ttomalss said. He would have to try to be patient, too.
After a brief tour of duty at Greifswald, Gorppet’s small unit had returned to the Deutsch center with the preposterous name of Peenemünde. The move made sense; the place was plainly the largest and most important center in the area. Or rather, it had been: it had taken a worse pounding than any he’d imagined, let alone any he’d seen. He and the males he commanded were constantly checking their radiation badges to make sure they were not picking up dangerous levels of radioactivity.
Despite the explosive-metal bombs that had fallen on the site, the wreckage remained impressive. Gorppet spoke to one of his troopers: “This was on its way to becoming a spaceport as large as any back on Home.”
“That would seem to be a truth, superior sir,” the male called Yarssev agreed.
“When we first came to Tosev 3, the Deutsche had not even begun launching rockets from this site,” Gorppet said.
Yarssev made the affirmative hand gesture. “That is also a truth, superior sir.”
“How long did the Race take to move from the first launch of a rocket to a spaceport?” Gorppet asked.
“I have no idea, superior sir,” Yarssev answered. “It has been a long time since they tried to make me learn history, and I have long since forgotten most of what they taught me.”
“So have I,” Gorppet said. “But this I will tell you: we did not go from rocket to spaceport in a fraction of an individual’s lifetime.”
“Well, of course not, superi
or sir,” Yarssev said. “If you ask me, there is something unnatural about the way the Big Uglies change so fast.”
“I would have a hard time arguing with you there, because I think that is also a truth,” Gorppet said. “And I will tell you something else: I think there is something unnatural about the way the Deutsche are surrendering their armaments.”
“Do you?” Yarssev gestured. The broad, low, damp plain was full of the implements of war: landcruisers, mechanized fighting vehicles, artillery pieces, rocket launchers, machine guns, stacked infantrymales’ weapons.
But Gorppet made the negative gesture. “Not enough. Remember what these Big Uglies threw at us in Poland? They had more than this—and better than this, too. They do not love us. They have no reason to love us. I think they are trying to hold out, to conceal, as much as they can.”
“What will you do, superior sir?” Yarssev asked.
And Gorppet had to hiss in dismay. That was an unfortunate question. He wished with every lobe of his liver that the trooper had not asked it. He answered, “There is not much I can do, you know. I am only a small-unit group leader. I have no tremendous authority, certainly not enough to compel the Deutsche to do anything. All I have is a lot of combat experience, and it tells me something is wrong here.”
Yarssev found another unfortunate question: “Have you given your views to the company commander?”
Gorppet let out another dismayed hiss. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. His opinion of the situation differs from mine.”
That was all he would say to Yarssev. The company commander was smugly convinced the Deutsche were obeying all treaty requirements. Gorppet hissed once more. Back in the days when he was an ordinary trooper, he’d seen that officers all too often didn’t want to listen to him. It wasn’t so much that they were smarter or more experienced than he was. But they had rank, and so they didn’t have to listen. He’d been sure things were different among officers, that they paid attention to their fellows if not to their inferiors. To his company commander, though, he remained an inferior.
Deutsch males moved among the weaponry they were turning over to the Race. Deutsch civilians were properly submissive to the Race. They knew their not-empire had taken a beating. These were not civilians. They wore the gray wrappings and steel helmets of soldiers. They also wore an almost palpable air of resentment and regret that the fighting had ended.
“Look at them.” Gorppet pointed with his tongue. “Do they have the look of males who will contentedly return to civilian life?”
“Does it matter if they are contented or not?” Yarssev asked in return. “So long as they are demobilized and have no weapons with which they can wage war against us, why should we care if they hate us?”
“Because, if they hate us, they will seek to hide and to regain weapons,” Gorppet answered patiently. “At the moment, they are merely submitting because they have no choice. I would sooner see them truly conquered.”
Yarssev didn’t argue with him any more. Of course not, Gorppet thought. I am an officer. He sees no point to arguing with officers, because he will not convince them even if he is right.
Gorppet laughed. When he’d been a trooper himself, most officers had looked like addled eggs to him, too. Now, though, he was sure he was right and Yarssev wrong. Perspective counted for a great deal.
Perspective . . . Gorppet made the affirmative hand gesture, although no one had asked him anything. Even if his company commander wasn’t interested in what he had to say, he could think of some males who might be. He found his top-ranking underofficer and told him not to let the Deutsche steal any troopers while he was gone, then went over to the tents marking brigade headquarters not far away. The brigade commander’s tent, of course, was bigger and more impressive than any of the others. Gorppet ignored it. The tent he had in mind was the least obtrusive one in the whole compound.
When he walked in, a male of a rank not much higher than his turned one eye turret away from a computer terminal and toward him. “Yes? What do you want?” the fellow asked, his tone implying that it had better be something interesting and important.
“Superior sir, does brigade Intelligence believe the Deutsche are in fact turning over all weapons required under the terms of their surrender?” Gorppet asked.
Now both the male’s eye turrets swung his way. “What makes you think they are not, Small-Unit Group Leader?” he asked sharply.
“What I see delivered here, superior sir,” Gorppet answered. “It does not seem to be matériel of the quality my unit faced when we fought the Deutsche in Poland. If it is not, where has that matériel gone?”
“Where has it gone?” the officer from Intelligence repeated. “The Deutsche say the Race destroyed most of it in combat. There is, without a doubt, some truth to that: would you not agree?”
“Certainly, superior sir,” Gorppet said. Then, brash as if he’d just had a big taste of ginger—which he hadn’t—he went on, “But would you not agree that it also gives the Deutsche a very handy excuse for hiding whatever they think they can get away with?”
“Give me your name.” The male from Intelligence rapped out the order. Liver in turmoil, Gorppet obeyed. How much trouble had he found for himself? The other male spoke into the computer, then to Gorppet again: “And your pay number?” Gorppet gave him that, too. He wondered if anything would be left of him by the time this male was through. But then, after a hiss of surprise, the fellow asked, “You are the male who captured the agitator Khomeini?”
“Yes, superior sir,” Gorppet admitted with what he hoped was becoming modesty.
“Have you spoken of this matter to your company commander?” the male from Intelligence asked.
“I have. He is of the opinion that the Deutsche are honoring their obligations,” Gorppet said.
“I am of the opinion that he is a fool,” the male from Intelligence said. “He could not see a sunrise if he were out in space.” He paused. “What made you come here, Small-Unit Group Leader, if your superior officer told you this matter that concerned you was unimportant?”
“What made me come here?” Gorppet echoed. “Superior sir, I did not like fighting the Deutsche once. You may believe me when I say I never want to have to fight them again.” He added an emphatic cough.
“No one wants to fight the Deutsche again—no one with sense,” the male said. “No one wants to fight any of the independent Tosevite not-empires again. The Reich caused us altogether too much damage. Another war would only be worse.”
“Truth!” Gorppet said with another emphatic cough.
“And you do not know everything the Deutsche are doing,” the other male said, “or rather, everything they are not doing. Their delivery of missile components and their surrender of poison gas have been well behind schedule. Their excuses, I might add, challenge credulity.”
“More blame on battle damage?” Gorppet asked.
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact. You have encountered similar claims?” the other male returned. Gorppet made the affirmative gesture. The other male eyed him appraisingly, then said, “Small-Unit Group Leader Gorppet, you show wit and initiative. Have you ever wondered if you were wasted as an infantrymale?”
“What do you mean, superior sir?” Gorppet asked.
“My name is Hozzanet,” the male from Intelligence said—a sign he was interested in Gorppet, sure enough. And he went on, “It might be possible to arrange a transfer to my service, if you are interested. Then you would be able to devote your full energies to tracking down Tosevite deceit.”
“That is tempting,” Gorppet admitted. “But I am not sure I would want to pursue it.” He did not think males from Intelligence would be encouraged to taste ginger. The reverse: he was sure they would be more closely monitored than ordinary infantrymales. And if they ever connected him with the ginger deal in South Africa that had involved males of the Race shooting at one another . . .
But if they ever connected him with that deal, he was in endless troub
le no matter which service he belonged to. Still . . .
Hozzanet said, “Speaking off the record and hypothetically—I ask no questions, note—sticking your tongue in the ginger vial every once in a while would not disqualify you. If you are in the habit of doing things like feeding females ginger to get them to mate with you, you would be well advised not to consider such a position.”
“I . . . see,” Gorppet said slowly. “No, I am not in the habit of doing any such thing with females. I have mated with females who have tasted ginger, but such tasting has always been at their initiative.”
“I understand,” Hozzanet said. “Many males have done that here on Tosev 3, I among them. Whether we like it or not, the herb is changing our sexual patterns here, and will continue to do so. But that, at the moment, is a patch of scales shed from one’s back. I ask again: are you interested in serving in Intelligence?”
“I . . . may be, superior sir,” Gorppet said. “May I have a day to think on it?” Hozzanet made the affirmative gesture. Gorppet assumed the posture of respect and left the tent. He didn’t know what he’d expected on visiting brigade Intelligence, but he was sure he hadn’t expected an invitation to join it.
He was on his way back to his small group when a beffel trotted across the path in front of him. It turned one eye turret his way, gave him a friendly beep, and went on about its business.
“And hello to you, too, little fellow,” Gorppet said: a beffel was a welcome reminder of Home. He’d walked on for several paces before he paused to wonder what in the Emperor’s name a beffel was doing in the midst of the wreckage of the Greater German Reich.
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