“They are, no doubt, especially willing to resort to it when you incite them,” Reffet said. As he spoke, words crawled across the bottom of the screen, informing Atvar of the bombing incident all over again. Atvar read them with one eye while looking at Reffet with the other.
A detail caught the attention of the fleetlord of the conquest fleet. “How did this Big Ugly manage to drive his vehicle into the center of the new town without being searched?”
“The inhabitants must have assumed he was there to deliver something or perform a service,” Reffet answered. “One does not commonly believe a Big Ugly in a truck is come on a mission of murder.”
“In that part of Tosev 3, with the present stresses, why not?” Atvar asked. “The males of the conquest fleet cannot do everything for you, Reffet. A checkpoint outside the town might have saved the colonists much sorrow.”
“Colonists are not soldiers,” Reffet said.
“Colonists can certainly be police,” Atvar answered, “and we have already begun to discuss the need for colonists to become soldiers. The males of the conquest fleet cannot carry the whole burden forever. Before all that long, we shall grow old and die. If the Race has no soldiers left after that, who will keep the Big Uglies from eating us up?”
“If we have a permanent Soldiers’ Time on this world, how can we be a proper part of the Empire?” Reffet returned. “The meaning of the Empire is that we have soldiers only in emergencies and for conquests.”
“When is it not an emergency on Tosev 3?” Atvar asked, a question for which Reffet could have no good answer. “Before the Empire unified Home, it always had soldiers, for it always needed them. That seems to be true on this world as well. You may regret it—I certainly regret it. But can you deny it?”
“Colonists will scream if you seek to make some of them into soldiers,” the fleetlord of the colonization fleet said. “Can you deny that?”
“How loud are they screaming because of those killed or wounded in the new town?” Atvar asked.
Reffet sighed. “This is not the world they were told to anticipate when they went into cold sleep back on Home. Many of them are still having difficulty adjusting to that. I understand, for I am still having difficulty adjusting to it myself.”
“Really? I never would have noticed,” Atvar said. It sounded like praise. Reffet knew it wasn’t. He glared at Atvar. The fleet-lord of the conquest fleet went on, “Colonists can deal with Tosev 3 as they imagined it to be, or they can deal with it as it is. I know which of those courses is likely to produce more satisfactory results. I wish more colonists would come to the same conclusion, rather than screaming because things are not as they would prefer.”
“That is unfair,” Reffet said. “We have labored long and hard to establish ourselves on this planet since our arrival here. You do not give us enough credit for it.”
“And you do not give us enough credit for all the labor—yes, and all the dying, too—we of the conquest fleet did so you would have a world you could colonize, even in part,” Atvar replied. “All we get is blame. Who back on Home would have thought the Big Uglies would have either trucks or explosives to load aboard them? And yet you colonists shout abuse at us for botching the war. You still cannot see how lucky we were to come away with a draw.”
“My males and females are not meant to be soldiers,” Reffet said stubbornly.
“Are they then meant to be victims?” Atvar inquired. “That seems to be the only other choice. I grieve that this terrorist assault against them succeeded. They will have to play a part if they want to keep others from succeeding.”
“You ask too much,” Reffet said.
“You give too little,” Atvar retorted. In perfect mutual loathing, they both broke the connection at the same time.
As Straha’s driver pulled to a halt in front of the house Ristin and Ullhass shared, the Big Ugly said, “Well, Shiplord, it seems as though you will have your chance to talk to Sam Yeager here instead of having to go all the way to Gardena.”
“Why do you say that?” Straha peered through the windows in the front part of the house. He did not see Yeager or any other Tosevite.
The driver barked laughter. “Because that is his automobile there, parked just in front of us.”
“Oh.” Straha felt foolish. He had never noticed what sort of motorcar Yeager drove. All he had noticed about American motorcars was that they came in far more varieties than seemed necessary. He undid his safety belt and opened the door. “Will you come in and join us? Ullhass asked that you be included in the invitation, if you so desired.”
“I thank you, but no,” the Big Ugly answered. “For one thing, I do not much care for crowds, whether of the Race or of Tosevites. And, for another, I can do a better job of protecting you from out here than from in there. I am assuming you will be in less danger from guests than from uninvited strangers.”
“I believe that is a valid assumption, yes,” Straha said. “If it is not, I have more and more diverse difficulties than I would have thought. I shall return in due course. I hope you will not be bored waiting for me.”
“It is my duty,” the driver said. “Enjoy yourself, Shiplord.”
Straha slammed the car door shut and headed for the house. He intended to do just that. Ullhass and Ristin always had good alcohol and plenty of ginger. They also had interesting guests, no matter what the driver thought. Because they were only small-scale traitors, the Race had long since forgiven them. Males and females from the land under the Race’s control could visit here without opprobrium, where they would have caused a scandal by coming to see Straha.
At the doorway, Ullhass folded himself into the posture of respect. “I greet you, Shiplord,” he said, as deferential as if Straha still commanded the 206th Emperor Yower. “I am always pleased when you honor my home by your presence.”
“I thank you for inviting me,” Straha replied. On the whole, that was true: these gatherings were as close as he could come to the society of his own kind. And if Ullhass, like Ristin, chose to wear red-white-and-blue body paint that showed he was a U.S. prisoner of war in place of the proper markings of the Race . . . well, he’d been doing that for a long time now, and Straha could overlook if not forgive it.
“Come in, come in,” Ullhass urged, and stood aside to let Straha do just that. “You have been here before—you will know where we keep the alcohol and the herb and the food. Help yourself to anything you think will please you. We are also doing some outdoor cooking in back of the house, with meats both from Tosev 3 and from Home.”
Sure enough, odors of smoke and of hot meat reached Straha’s scent receptors. “The smells are intriguing indeed,” he said. “I must be careful not to slobber on your floor.” Ullhass laughed.
Straha went into the kitchen and poured himself some rum—like most of the Race, he had no use for whiskey. He loaded a small plate with Greek olives and salted nuts and potato chips, then went out through the open sliding glass door into the back yard. Sam Yeager stood out there offering helpful advice to Ristin, who was cremating meat on a grill above a charcoal fire.
“I greet you, Shiplord,” Yeager said to Straha, and raised his glass in a Tosevite salute. “Good to see you.”
“How can you stand to drink that stuff?” Straha asked—Yeager’s glass did hold whiskey. “What is it good for but removing paint?”
The Big Ugly sipped the nasty stuff. “Removing troubles,” he answered, and sipped again.
That startled a laugh out of Straha, who took a drink of rum himself. “Well, but why not remove troubles with something that tastes good?” he asked.
“I like the way whiskey tastes just fine,” Yeager answered. “I have spent a lot of time getting used to it, and I see no point in wasting the accomplishment.”
That made Straha laugh, too; he enjoyed Yeager’s off-center way of looking at the world. “Have it as you will, then,” he said. “Every beffel goes to its own hole, or so the saying has it.”
“Beffl
em, yes.” Yeager’s head bobbed up and down. “All of your animals here now. Some of them smell very tasty.” He pointed back to the grill on which Ristin was cooking. “But others . . . Do you know about the rabbits in Australia, Shiplord?”
“I know what rabbits are: those hopping furry creatures with long flaps of skin channeling sound to their hearing diaphragms,” Straha answered. Yeager nodded once more. Straha continued, “And I know of Australia, because it is one of our principal centers of colonization—not that I will ever get to see as much, of course.” For a moment, his bitterness at exile showed through. “But, I confess, I do not know of any connection between rabbits and Australia.”
“Until a little more than a hundred years ago, there were no rabbits in Australia,” the Tosevite told him. “None used to live there. The settlers brought them. Because they were new, because they had no natural enemies to speak of, they spread all over Australia and became great pests. Your animals from Home are liable to do the same thing on big stretches of Tosev 3.”
“Ah. I see your concern,” Straha replied. After another sip of rum, he shrugged. “I do not know what to say about this. I do not know that there is anything to be said about it. Your settlers, I presume, brought their animals with them and transformed the ecology of the areas in which they settled till it suited them better. Our colonists are doing the same thing here on Tosev 3. Did you expect them to do otherwise?”
“If you want to know the truth, Shiplord, I did not think much about it one way or the other,” Sam Yeager said. “I do not think any Tosevites thought much about it till the colonization fleet came. Now reports from all over Tosev 3 are beginning to reach me. I do not know how big a problem your animals will turn out to be, but I think they will be a problem.”
“I would not be surprised if you were right—from a Tosevite point of view, of course,” Straha said. “To the Race, these animals are a convenience, not a problem.”
As if to prove what a convenience the Race’s domesticated animals could be, Ristin chose that moment to shout—in English—“Come and get it!” Straha let out a small snort of dismay. He knew Ristin and Ullhass had taken on as many Tosevite ways as they could, but a call like that offended his sense of dignity.
He was not so offended, however, as to keep from taking chunks of azwaca still sizzling from their time above the coals. Sam Yeager did the same. Unlike Straha’s driver, he showed no reluctance about trying the Race’s foods. After his first bite, he waved to get Ristin’s attention and spoke in English: “That’s pretty damn good.”
“Glad you like it,” the former infantrymale answered, again in the same tongue. Sure enough, he was nothing but a Big Ugly with scales and eye turrets.
But he did have good food. Straha tried the ssefenji next: a grainier, tougher meat then azwaca, and less sweet to the tongue. He didn’t like it so well, but it too was a taste of Home. And it turned out to go very well with cashews. Straha walked back into the house to get some more nuts, and filled up his glass of rum while he was there.
He glanced out the kitchen window. There sat his driver in the motorcar, looking, as best Straha could tell, bored. But the Big Ugly was in fact alert; Straha had never known him when he wasn’t alert. Seeing Straha in the window, he waved and saluted. Not many Tosevites could have recognized the ex-shiplord from such a brief glance, but he did. Straha waved back, in grudging but genuine respect.
Then he headed outside once more for another helping of ssefenji ribs. He caught Sam Yeager’s eye again. “And how is the Tosevite raised by the Race?” he asked.
“Well enough,” Yeager answered. “My hatchling and I spoke with her again, not so long ago, and with video this time. She would be a very attractive female, did she not shave off all her hair—and were her face more lively, of course.”
“Attractive? How could you judge over the telephone?” Before Yeager could answer, Straha did it for him: “Never mind. I forgot that you Big Uglies judge such matters as much by sight as by odor.”
“More by sight, I would say,” Yeager answered.
“Our females are the same, in judging a male’s mating display, but with males it is a matter of scent.” Straha looked for a way to change the subject; when not incited by pheromones, he did not care to discuss matters pertaining to mating. Having seen his driver put a new thought in his mind: “Are you aware that you have made enemies by poking your snout into places where it is not welcome? I quote someone in a position to know whereof he speaks.”
“I bet I can guess who he is, too,” Yeager said. Straha neither confirmed nor denied that. The Big Ugly’s laugh was harsh. “Yes, Shiplord, you might say I am aware of that. You just might. I killed a man last week, to keep him from killing me.”
“By the Emperor!” Straha exclaimed. “I did not know that. Why did he want to do such a thing?”
“He is too dead to ask, and his pal escaped,” Yeager answered. “I wish I knew.”
Straha studied him. “Has this incident any connection to the Big Uglies who fired shots at your home last year when the Chinese females and I were visiting?”
“I do not know that, either, and I wish I did,” Sam Yeager said. “As a matter of fact, I was wondering if you ever found out anything more about those Big Uglies.”
“Myself personally? No,” Straha replied. “Assassination is a tactic the Race seldom employs. My driver is of the opinion that the Chinese females were the likeliest targets for the Big Uglies. He is also of the opinion that you may have been a target yourself, this due to your snout-poking tendencies.”
“He is, is he?” Yeager’s mobile mouth narrowed till he seemed to have hardly more in the way of lips than a male of the Race. “Your driver has all sorts of interesting opinions. One of these days, I may have to sit down with him for a good long talk. I might learn a few things.”
“On the other fork of the tongue, you might not,” Straha told him. “He is not in the habit of revealing a great deal. I, for one, am certain he knows a great deal more than he says.”
“That does not sound much like a Big Ugly,” Sam Yeager remarked, and now his mouth stretched wide to show amusement. But his expression quickly became more nearly neutral. “It does sound like a particular kind of Big Ugly—one in the business of intelligence, for instance.”
“Are you surprised at that?” Straha felt an exile’s odd sort of pride. “I am an intelligence resource of some value to your not-empire.”
“Well, so you are, Shiplord. You—” Sam Yeager began.
But Straha stopped listening just then. As had happened before at Ullhass and Ristin’s gatherings, a female from the colonization fleet must have decided to try a taste of ginger, which was legal here in the United States. As soon as her pheromones floated outside, Straha, along with the rest of the males in the back yard, lost interest in everything else. He hurried into the house, hoping for a chance to mate.
When Mordechai Anielewicz came up to the door of his flat, he heard shouting inside. He sighed as he raised his hand to knock on the door. Both Miriam and David were old enough to have strong opinions of their own these days, and young enough to be passionately certain their opinions were the only right and proper ones, those of their parents being idiotic by assumption. No wonder life sometimes got noisy.
He knocked. As he did so, he cocked his head to one side and listened. One eyebrow rose. This wasn’t Miriam or David arguing with his wife. This was Heinrich, and he sounded even more passionate than either of his older siblings was in the habit of doing. Not only was he the youngest, he was also usually the sunniest. What could have made him . . . ?
As David Anielewicz opened the door, Mordechai heard a squeak. It wasn’t a squeak from hinges that wanted oiling. It was much too friendly and endearing for that.
“He didn’t,” Anielewicz exclaimed.
“He sure did,” his older son answered. “He brought it home about an hour ago. Mother’s been trying to make him get rid of it ever since.”
No soon
er had Anielewicz shut the door than Heinrich, doing an excellent impersonation of a tornado, dashed up to him shouting, “She said I could keep him! She said if I got one, I could keep him! She said, Father! And now I did, and now she won’t let me.” Tears streaked the tornado’s cheeks—mostly, Mordechai judged, tears of fury.
“Take it easy,” he said. “We’ll talk about it.” Back inside the flat, the beffel squeaked again. It sounded as if it wanted to stay, but who—who human, anyway—could know how a beffel was supposed to sound?
His wife strode into the short entry hall a moment later. It was getting crowded in there, but no one seemed to want to move away. “That thing, that horrible thing, has got to go,” Bertha declared.
“It’s not horrible,” Heinrich said. The beffel let out yet another squeak. It didn’t sound like a horrible thing. It sounded like a squeeze toy. Heinrich went on, “And you said that if I caught one, I could keep him. You did. You did.”
“But I didn’t think you’d really go and do it,” his mother said.
“That doesn’t matter,” Anielewicz said. Bertha looked appalled. Mordechai knew he would hear more—much more—about this later, but he went on, “You didn’t have to make the promise, but you did. Now I’d say you’ve got to keep it.”
Heinrich started dancing. There wasn’t room for that in the narrow hallway, but he did it anyhow. “I can keep him! I can keep him! I can keep him!” he sang.
Anielewicz took him by the shoulder and forcibly stopped the dance. “You can keep him,” he agreed, ignoring the dismay that still hadn’t left his wife’s face. “You can keep him, as long as you take care of him, and as long as he doesn’t cause trouble. If he makes horrible messes, or if he starts biting people, out he goes on his ear.” Befflem didn’t have ears, but that had nothing to do with anything.
Colonization: Down to Earth Page 28