“I might get her flowers, superior sir,” Jonathan Yeager answered.
“Why?” Ttomalss demanded. “What possible good are flowers?”
“They are pretty,” the Big Ugly replied. “And they smell sweet. Females like them.”
“This liking is bound to be cultural,” Ttomalss said. “Not having the proper conditioning, Kassquit is unlikely to share it. In any case, flowers are unlikely to be available. Are there other possibilities?”
“Yes,” Jonathan Yeager said. “I might get her . . . I do not know the word in your language, superior sir, but it would be used to make her smell sweet.”
“Perfume.” Ttomalss supplied the term. Then he said, “No,” and used an emphatic cough. “We are more sensitive to odors than you Big Uglies, and what you find pleasant is often unpleasant to us. Perfume would be altogether too public a gift. Try again, or else abandon this idea.”
He hoped Jonathan Yeager would abandon it, but the wild Tosevite said, “I might also get her sweet things to eat. This is a common sort of gift between males and females in my not-empire.”
“You should have mentioned it sooner,” Ttomalss told him. “It is something we might possibly be able to supply. Return to the quarters you share with Kassquit. When I have the sweet foods, I will summon you.”
“I thank you, superior sir,” Jonathan Yeager said. “You do not have the custom of giving gifts, I gather?”
“To a much smaller degree than you Big Uglies, certainly,” Ttomalss answered. “Among us, gifts are often slightly suspect. If someone gives me something, the first thing I wonder is what he wants in return.”
“They can be among us, too,” the Big Ugly said. “But they can also simply show affection, as I want to do here.”
“Affection.” Ttomalss spoke the word with amused contempt All too often, Tosevites used it when they meant nothing but sexual attraction. “You are dismissed, Jonathan Yeager. I will try to get these sweets for you—and for Kassquit.” He had a genuine disinterested affection for the hatchling he’d raised, since he could not possibly want to mate with her. Like any male of the Race, he viewed decisions influenced by sexuality with the greatest of suspicion.
He did sometimes wonder whether he or Veffani had fathered Felless’ first brace of hatchlings when she’d come to them reeking of the pheromones ginger made females produce. He shrugged. If he had, he had. If not, not. Mating with Felless certainly made him feel no more affection for the difficult and cross-grained female.
But Big Uglies worked differently. He had seen that before, and saw it again with Kassquit and Jonathan Yeager. Their matings made them feel increased liking for each other; the video records made that quite plain. With the wild Big Ugly, such behavior might have been a cultural artifact. With Kassquit, it assuredly was not. But it was there nonetheless. Ttomalss sighed. He wished his ward’s behavior in this matter were less like those of the Tosevites who’d grown up in independent squalor.
Sighing again, he made a few calls to learn when and from where shuttlecraft from the surface of Tosev 3 were scheduled to reach the starship—assuming they survived Deutsch attack on the way up. But the Deutsche, these days, had few spaceships left in orbit around Tosev 3; the Race had done a good job of getting rid of them. Supply missions were almost routine again.
Sure enough, a shuttlecraft brought what he’d asked for. He summoned Jonathan Yeager and said, “Here are the sweets you requested.”
Instead of delight, the wild Big Ugly showed confusion. “I had expected what we call choklit,” he said slowly. “These look like balls of raiss.” A couple of words were in his own language. Ttomalss figured out what they were likely to mean.
He exhaled in some annoyance. “You asked for sweets. These are sweets. Moreover, they are sweets from the subregion of the main continental mass called China. This is the subregion from which Kassquit came.”
“May I try one first?” Jonathan Yeager still sounded dubious. Ttomalss made the affirmative gesture. The Tosevite plucked one of the balls out of the syrup in which it came, put it in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “It has sesamisidz inside,” he said.
“Is this good or bad?” Ttomalss asked.
Jonathan Yeager shrugged. “I do not think it is as good as choklit. But it is a sweet, and I thank you for it. I hope Kassquit will like it. I think she will.” He bent into the posture of respect—he did have manners, for a wild Tosevite—and took the container with the remaining sweets back to Kassquit’s chamber.
Ttomalss eyed the video that came from the chamber. He listened to Kassquit exclaim in surprise and pleasure, and watched her try the sweets. She must have liked them; she ate several, one after another.
“No one has ever cared for me as you care for me,” she told Jonathan Yeager. Before long, the two of them were mating again, though shielded from the possibility of reproduction.
Having seen that activity before, Ttomalss stopped watching the video feed. He hadn’t imagined that Kassquit’s words could hurt as much as they did. Who had fed her when she was helpless? Who had cleaned excrement from her skin? Who had taught her the language and the ways of the Race? Did a few sweets and pleasurable mating count for more than all that?
He let out a discontented hiss. He had not been the one to think of giving Kassquit an unexpected treat. Even so, it hardly seemed fair. He wondered if Tosevites ever so discounted the efforts of those of their own kind who raised them. It struck him as most unlikely. No, this case of ingratitude was surely unique.
I tried to get out, Monique Dutourd thought. I did everything I could. Is it my fault that I didn’t do it quite soon enough?
Whose fault it was didn’t matter. What mattered was that she remained stuck in Marseille. A passport, even a passport with a false name, did her no good whatever when she couldn’t go anywhere with it. She had two choices now, as she saw things: run for the hills or wait for explosive-metal fire to burst over her city, as it had over so many cities of the Greater German Reich.
To her surprise, Pierre and Lucie were sitting tight. “How can you stay?” she asked them one morning over breakfast—croissants and café au lait as usual, war having affected the black market very little. “The radio said the Lizards blew up Lyon yesterday. How long can they keep from blowing us up, too?”
“Quite a while, I hope,” Pierre answered placidly. “Pass the marmalade, if you would be so kind.”
Monique didn’t want to pass it; she wanted to throw it at him. “You are mad!” she cried. “We live on borrowed time, and you ask for marmalade?”
“Croissants are better with it,” he said. She shook with fury. Her brother laughed. “I do not think we are all going to explode in the next few minutes. Will you calm yourself and let me explain why?”
“You had better, before I get on my bicycle and head for the hills,” Monique said. “You were talking about doing that yourself, if you will remember?’
“I know.” Pierre nodded and paused to light a cigarette. He coughed a couple of times. “First one of the morning. Yes, I know I was talking about fleeing. You still may, if you feel you must. But I doubt it is necessary to flee from Marseille.”
“Why do you doubt it?” Monique bit off the words one by one.
“Why?” Pierre grinned at her and said no more.
“Enough teasing, Pierre.” Lucie could tell when Monique was on the ragged edge of cracking, where her own brother could not. Turning to Monique, she went on, “We have—which is to say, Marseille has—a good many friends in high places. From what we hear from them, the city is safe enough.”
“Friends where? Among the Germans?” Monique demanded. “They can’t keep any place in the whole blasted Reich safe.”
Her brother and his lover both burst out laughing. “Among the Germans?” he said. “No, not at all. By no means. I would not trust what a German told me if Christ came down from Heaven with a choir of angels to assure me it was so. But we have plenty of friends in high places among the Race, o
f that you may be very certain. They do not want to see such a fine place of business wiped off the face of the Earth—and so it will not be.”
Monique stared at him. “They will spare this city . . . for the sake of the ginger trade?” she said slowly. “I knew your connections with the Race were good. I never dreamt they were that good.” She wondered if Pierre was fooling himself.
But Lucie said, “Here we are, an obvious target close to Spain, a target close to Africa, but have they attacked us? No, not at all. Are they likely to attack us? I do not think so.”
“Well . . .” Monique hadn’t thought of it in those terms. Marseille was an obvious target. The Nazis knew it as well as the Lizards did; they wouldn’t have installed all those antiaircraft missiles in the hills outside the city if they hadn’t known it. But not even an enemy airplane had appeared over Marseille, let alone an enemy missile. Grudgingly, Monique said, “It could be, I suppose.”
“So far, it is,” Pierre said. “I see no reason to believe the future will be very much different from the past.”
That almost set Monique laughing, where nothing else had come close to doing the job. It was a very Roman attitude. It was, from everything she’d seen, also very much the attitude of the Race. But it wasn’t the attitude of the Reich, and it didn’t work so well for the Lizards here. That worried her.
Pierre wasn’t worried. After stubbing out the cigarette, he said, “Go on, Monique. Go shopping. Spend my money on whatever you want. After the Lizards finish the Nazis, they will still need people to buy and sell for them. We will be waiting. And if the Germans come back in another twenty years”—he shrugged—“they will need people to buy and sell for them, too. And we will still be waiting.”
That wasn’t a classical Roman attitude, but she had no doubt the inhabitants of ancient Massilia had shared it. And they would have had reason to do so. But not even Caesar’s sack of the ancient city would have wrecked it anywhere near so thoroughly as one explosive-metal bomb could. Monique wasn’t sure how well Pierre understood that.
She found another question to ask her brother: “How long can you hold out if the Lizards don’t come into Marseille to buy what you have to sell?”
He chuckled again. “Oh, twenty or thirty years, I would say. They make me extra money. I don’t deny that. But I do most of my business with people, anyhow. I can go right on doing that. Whether there is a war or not, plenty of things come into the Old Port. There aren’t enough Germans in the world to look through all the little boats that sail in from Spain and from Italy and from Greece and from Turkey.”
“Ah, Turkey,” Lucie said rapturously. “The business we do with Turkey, all by itself, could keep us afloat.”
“Poppies, I suppose,” Monique said, and her brother and his lover nodded. Monique had visions of opium dens and other sinister things. She didn’t know any details. She didn’t want to know any details. She shook her head. “Sordid.”
“It could be.” Pierre shrugged. “In fact, I suppose it is. You do not see Lucie or me using these things, do you? But there is a great deal of money to be had, from the Lizards and from the Nazis and from—” He broke off.
From the French, he’d been about to say. Monique knew it. Her brother wasn’t too proud to take his profits wherever he could find them. And she’d been living off his largesse ever since escaping Dieter Kuhn. She hadn’t thought till now about how filthy the bargain was. Maybe she hadn’t let herself think about it.
She took a deep breath, getting ready to tell him in great detail what she thought of him for doing what he did. Before she could speak, though, sirens all through Marseille started to scream. She sprang to her feet. “That is the attack warning!”
“It can’t be!” Pierre and Lucie said it together. But it was. The way they leaped up from their seats, the sudden horrid fear on their faces, said they knew it was, too.
Monique wasted no time arguing with them. “To the shelter, and pray God we aren’t too late.” With that, she was out the door and rushing down the stairs. Her brother and Lucie didn’t argue with her, either. They followed.
“How soon?” Lucie moaned. Even terrified, she sounded sexy. Monique wondered if that was worth admiring. But she also wondered, much more, about the question. If the Lizards had launched a missile from Spain, it would be in before she got to the basement of the block of flats, and that would be that. If it came from farther away, she had more time—but not much.
Down, down, down. The sirens kept screaming. Monique felt like screaming, too. Farther behind her, people with slower reactions were screaming, screaming with the dreadful fear that they might be too late, too late. She knew that fear. She clamped down on it till she tasted blood and realized she was also clamping down on the inside of her lower lip.
And there was the door to the cellar. “Merci, mon cher Dieu,” she gasped as she rushed inside: the most sincere prayer she’d sent up in many years. Oh, she’d wished Dieter Kuhn dead, but wishing that turned out to be far more pallid than wishing that she herself should stay alive.
Pierre and Lucie came in right behind her. Pierre started to slam the door, but a big, burly man almost trampled him. Monique grabbed her brother. Cursing, he said, “You’re going to kill us all.”
She had no good answer to that, not after her prayer of a moment before. The discovery that there were circumstances under which she would rather not stay alive was as astonishing as the discovery of how much she wanted to live.
More people crowded into the shelter. And then came a roar like the end of the world—just like the end of the world, Monique thought—and the lights went out. The ground shook, as if in an earthquake. It knocked Monique off her feet. She thought she was dead then.
Someone—maybe the burly man—did slam the door. After that, the darkness should have been complete, absolute, stygian. But it wasn’t, not quite. A light brighter than summer sunshine at its hottest showed all around the cracks between the door and its frame. Ever so slowly, it faded and reddened. Then it was black. Monique didn’t think the light itself had vanished quite so abruptly. She judged it much more likely that the block of flats had fallen down and cut off the view.
People—men and women both—were screaming about being buried alive. In the pitch blackness, Monique understood the fear, not least because she felt it herself. And then her brother flicked a flame from a cigarette lighter. “Ahh,” everyone in the shelter said together.
Pierre held up the lighter like a sacred talisman. “There will be candles,” he said in a voice of great certainty. “Hurry and find them.”
There were several boxes. They’d fallen off their shelf, but a woman brought one to him. He lit it and closed his lighter with a snap. The candle flame was pallid, but ever so much better than being stuck in the dark. Monique was still afraid, but much less than she had been.
Pierre went right on speaking with authority: “Now we wait. We wait as long as we have air and food and water—or, better, wine—and even this little light. The longer we wait, the safer it will be when we have to come out. I do not know if it will be safe—we will be taking a chance, of that there is no doubt—but it will be safer.”
From everything Monique knew about explosive-metal weapons, he was speaking the gospel truth. Even now, radiation would be entering the shelter, but she didn’t know what she could do about that. Or rather, she did know: nothing. She turned to—turned on—her brother and snarled, “No, they won’t bomb Marseille. You have friends in high places. You know these things.”
From the way the candlelight filled the lines of his face with shadow, he looked to have aged twenty years. He said, “I was wrong. Shall I tell you I was right? I have some hope. If we had been closer to where the bomb burst, we would already be dead.”
Out of the darkness where the candlelight didn’t reach, someone said, “Now we have to see whether radiation sickness kills us in the next day or two. If it doesn’t kill us, we have to see how many years it takes off our lives.”
“Shut up,” Monique said fiercely. She didn’t want to think about that; she wanted to remember she’d stayed alive so far. “We have to see how much there is to eat, and how much to drink, as my brother said. And we have to see how many buckets and pails we can find.” Her nose wrinkled. The shelter would be a nasty place before long. Something else occurred to her. “And we’ll need shovels and poles and picks, if there are any, to dig our way out when we can’t stay here any more. If there aren’t, we’ll have to do it with our bare hands.” If we can. She didn’t want to think about that, about being entombed here forever. And she didn’t want to think about what they would find when they did—if they did—dig themselves out. She stood there in the cellar, and stared and stared at the candle. With her classical training, the flickering flame put her in mind of her own life. But if the candle went out, they could light another. If she went out . . .
One more thing she didn’t want to think about.
Johannes Drucker had done everything he could with Hans-Ulrich’s Bus, but he wasn’t going to be able to stay in space much longer. He’d managed to make the air purifier go a lot further than it was designed to, but he’d be eating his underwear before too long—though by now, after four mortal weeks, it was far too filthy to be appetizing.
He knew why he was still alive, when most if not all of his comrades up here had died: he’d never got orders to attack the Lizards. After a while, the Reich had stopped ordering him to land. But no one down on the ground had included him in the assault on the Race. Maybe the powers that be had thought him too unreliable to be trusted in the fight. Maybe, too, they’d just forgotten about him by now. He wasn’t sure who, if anybody, was in charge down on the ground these days.
Maybe I should have done what I could to hurt the Lizards, even without orders, he thought, for about the five hundredth time. But the war was madness. As far as he was concerned, Poland wasn’t worth having. He’d fought there, and did not hold the place in high esteem. But Himmler and then Kaltenbrunner had thought otherwise, and the new Führer threw the Wehrmacht over the border, as Hitler had in 1939.
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