Down to Earth c-2

by Harry Turtledove

  A light went on in Anielewicz’s head. “No wonder the Germans have stalled. The Race is bombing all their cities near the border. They must be having the devil’s time getting supplies through.”

  “That’s not all the Race is bombing,” the man with the radio answered. “The Lizards aren’t playing the game halfway this time.”

  “Will there be anything left of the world when they’re through?” Mordechai asked.

  “I don’t know about the world,” the man answered. “But I’ll tell you this: there won’t be much left of the goddamn Greater German Reich.”

  Mordechai Anielewicz said, “Good.”

  So far, the Deutsche had aimed four missiles at Cairo. The Race had knocked down two. One warhead had failed to detonate. And even the explosive-metal bomb that had gone off exploded a good distance east of the city. All things considered, it could have been much worse, and Atvar knew it.

  He swung an eye turret toward Kirel. “They thought we would be meek and mild and forbearing,” he said. “Not this time. They miscalculated. In spite of all our warnings, they miscalculated. And now they are going to pay for it.”

  “Indeed, Exalted Fleetlord.” Kirel pointed toward the map on the monitor in front of Atvar. “They have paid for it already.”

  “Not yet,” Atvar said. “Not enough. This time, we are going to make a proper example of them.”

  “By the time we are through with the Reich, nothing will be left of it,” Kirel said.

  “Good,” Atvar said coldly. “The Deutsche have troubled us altogether too much in the past. We-I-have been far too patient. The time for patience is past. In the future, the Deutsche shall not trouble us again.”

  Kirel ordered a different map up on the monitor. “They have also done us considerable damage in the present conflict.”

  Atvar sighed. “That, unfortunately, was to be expected. With their orbiting weapons and with those fired from their submersible boats, the time between launch and detonation is very short. Our colonies on the island continent and on the central peninsula of the main continental mass have suffered, as have those west of here.”

  “And our orbiting starships,” Kirel said.

  “And our orbiting starships,” Atvar agreed. “And also Poland, very heavily, which is unfortunate.”

  “We might have done better not to settle so many colonists in Poland,” Atvar admitted. “The only reason we ended up administering the subregion was that none of the Tosevite factions involved in the area would admit that any of the others had the right to control it. To reduce the chances of an outbreak, we kept it-and see what our reward was for that.”

  “ ‘Reward’ is hardly the term I would use, Exalted Fleetlord,” Kirel said.

  Pshing came into Atvar’s office, which had become the command post for the Race’s war against the Reich. “Exalted Fleetlord, our monitors have just picked up a new broadcast from the not-emperor of the Deutsche.”

  “Oh, a pestilence!” Atvar burst out. “We have expended several warheads on Nuremberg. I had hoped their command and control would be utterly disrupted by now. We shall just have to keep trying, that is all. Well, Pshing? What does the Big Ugly say?”

  “His tone remains defiant, Exalted Fleetlord,” his adjutant replied. “Translation indicates he still predicts ultimate victory for his side.”

  “He is as addled as an egg twenty days past hatching in the hot sun,” Atvar said.

  “Unfortunately, Exalted Fleetlord, he is not so addled as to have failed to take shelter against our attacks, at least not yet,” Kirel said. “We kept getting reports that the Deutsche were constructing elaborate subterranean shelters. Those reports, if anything, appear to have been understatements.”

  “So they do,” Atvar said. “And the Deutsche appear to have continued all the ruthlessness they displayed in the earlier fighting. You will recall that we hoped some of their subject allies would desert them?”

  “Yes, Exalted Fleetlord,” Kirel said. “And one of those not-empires-the one called Romania, wasn’t it? — did attempt to do so.”

  “Yes, that not-empire attempted to do so,” Atvar said, “whereupon the Deutsche detonated an explosive-metal bomb above its largest city. That not-empire, or what is left of it, now loudly proclaims its loyalty to the Reich, and the other subject allies are too terrified to do anything but obey.”

  “How much more harm can the Deutsche do us, Exalted Fleetlord?” Pshing asked.

  “Their armies in Poland are already faltering for lack of supplies and reinforcements,” Atvar replied. “Most of their facilities in space have been destroyed, as have as many of their ground-based launch sites as we could hunt down. Those submersible boats of theirs are our greatest problem now. Every so often, they will surface, throw more missiles, and then disappear again. And, once submerged, the miserable things are almost impossible to detect or destroy.”

  “In short,” Kirel said, “they can go on hurting us for a while. They have no hope-none whatsoever-of defeating us.”

  Atvar made the affirmative gesture. “That is the truth at the yolk of the egg. Bit by bit, they are being smashed. They have harmed us, but they will be in no condition to keep on harming us much longer.”

  “And that is as it should be,” Pshing said. An alert light appeared on the monitor. “I will answer your telephone in the antechamber,” Pshing told the fleetlord, and hurried away. A moment later, he came back. “Exalted Fleetlord, it is the ambassador from the not-empire of the United States. He requests an immediate audience.”

  “Find out what he wants,” Atvar said.

  Pshing disappeared again. When he came back, he said, “He seeks terms for a cease-fire between the Race and the Reich.”

  “Is the Reich seeking to surrender and to yield itself to us?” Atvar asked. “Is he coming at the request of the Deutsch government?”

  “I shall inquire.” Pshing duly did so, then reported, “No, Exalted Fleetlord. His mover is his own not-emperor, seeking to end the war.”

  “Tell him I will not see him under those circumstances,” Atvar replied. “If the Deutsche want to end the war, they can ask us for terms. No one else may do so. Tell him just that.”

  “It shall be done,” Pshing said. When he came back this time, though, he sounded worried: “The ambassador says the American not-emperor will take a very dim view of our refusal to discuss terms with his representative.”

  “Does he?” Atvar let out an unhappy hiss. If the United States got angry enough to join the fighting, especially without much warning, victory looked much less secure, and the Race would suffer much more damage. The fleetlord changed his mind. “Very well, then. He may come. Pick some reasonably short amount of time from now and tell him to arrive then.”

  “It shall be done,” Pshing said, and made the arrangement.

  Henry Cabot Lodge entered the fleetlord’s office at precisely the appointed time. Even for a Tosevite, he was unusually tall and unusually erect. He spoke the language of the Race with a heavy accent, but was fluent enough. “I greet you, Exalted Fleetlord,” he said, and bent into the posture of respect.

  “I greet you, and I greet your not-emperor through you,” Atvar replied. “What message does he wish to convey through you?”

  “That you have punished the Deutsche enough,” the American Big Ugly replied. “They cannot take Poland, their facilities in space are badly damaged, and their homeland is a shambles. President Warren strongly feels any more attacks against them would be superfluous.”

  “If your not-emperor sat in my chair, he would have a different opinion.” Atvar stressed that with an emphatic cough, to show how sure he was. “He would aim to be certain the Deutsche could never menace him again, which is what we aim to do now.”

  “How was the Hermann Goring menacing you?” Henry Cabot Lodge asked. “In no way anyone could see, and yet you destroyed it.”

  “We do not know what the Deutsch spacecraft was doing or would be doing,” Atvar replied. “We wer
e not interested in taking a chance and finding out, either.” He turned both eye turrets toward the Big Ugly. “We do not know what the Lewis and Clark is doing, either,” he added pointedly.

  “Whatever it is doing, it is none of the Race’s concern,” Lodge said, and used an emphatic cough of his own. “If you interfere with its operation in any way or attack it, the United States will reckon that an act of war, and we will answer with every means at our disposal. Do I make myself plain?”

  “You do.” Atvar seethed, but did his best not to show it. Before he’d gone into cold sleep, he’d never imagined he would have to submit to such insolence from a Tosevite. “But let me also make one thing clear to you. You are not a party to the dispute between the Race and the Reich. Because you are not a party, you would be well advised to remove your snout from the dispute, or it will be bitten. Do I make myself plain?”

  “Events all over this planet are the concern of the United States.”

  “Oh?” Atvar spoke in a soft, menacing tone; he wondered if the Big Ugly could perceive that. “Do you consider yourself a party to this dispute, then? Is your not-empire declaring war on the Race? You had better make yourself very, very plain.”

  Lodge licked his fleshy lips, a sign of stress among the Tosevites. “No, we are not declaring war,” he said at last. “We are trying to arrange a just and lasting peace.”

  “The Race will attend to that,” Atvar answered. “Battering the Deutsche to the point where they are not dangerous to us is the best way I can think of to make certain the peace endures. And that peace will last, would you not agree?”

  “Perhaps that peace will,” Lodge said. “But you will also frighten the United States and the Soviet Union. Is that what you want? I know the Deutsche have hurt you. How much could we and the SSSR hurt you? Do you want to make us more likely to fight you? You may do that.”

  “How?” Atvar was genuinely curious. “Will you not think, If we fight the Race, we will get what the Reich got? Surely any sensible beings would think along those lines.”

  “Perhaps,” Lodge said, “but perhaps not, too.” His features were not so still as Molotov’s or Gromyko’s, but he revealed little. “We might think, The Race will believe we have so much fear that it can make any demand at all upon us. We had better fight, to show that belief is mistaken.”

  Atvar didn’t answer right away. Given what he knew of Tosevite psychology, the American ambassador’s comment had an unpleasant ring of probability to it. But he could not admit as much without yielding more ground than he wanted. “We shall have to take that chance,” he said. “Is there anything more?”

  “No, Exalted Fleetlord,” Lodge said. “I shall send your words back to President Warren. I fear he will be disappointed.”

  “I do not relish this war myself. It was forced on me,” Atvar answered. “But now that I have it, I intend to win it. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, that is clear.” Lodge’s sigh sounded much like that which might have come from a male of the Race. “But I will also say that your reply is a personal disappointment to me. I had hoped for better from the Race.”

  “And I had hoped for better from the Deutsche,” Atvar said. “I warned them what would happen if they chose conflict. They did not care to believe me. Now they are paying for their error-and they deserve to pay for their error.”

  Before the American ambassador could reply, Pshing burst in and said, “Exalted Fleetlord, a Deutsch missile has just got through our defenses and wrecked Istanbul!”

  “Oh, a plague!” Atvar cried. “That makes resupplying Poland all the more difficult.” He turned both eye turrets back to Henry Cabot Lodge. “You see, Ambassador, that the Deutsche do not yet believe the war to be over. If they do not, I cannot, either. Goodbye.” For a wonder, Lodge left without another word.

  Not for the first time, Sam Yeager spoke reassuringly to his wife: “He’s all right, hon. There’s the message.” He pointed to the computer monitor. “Read it yourself-he’s fine. Nothing bad has happened to him.” As a matter of fact, he’s probably screwing himself silly and having the time of his life. He didn’t say that to Barbara.

  She wasn’t reassured, either. “He shouldn’t be up there in the first place,” she said. “He ought to be down here in L.A., where it’s safe.”

  Yeager sighed. Barbara was probably right. “I really didn’t think the Germans would be dumb enough to start a war with the Lizards. Honest, I didn’t.”

  “Well, you should have,” Barbara said. “And you should have put your foot down and kept him from going, especially since you know the main thing he was going up there to do.”

  “It’s one way to get to know somebody. Sometimes it’s the fastest way to get to know somebody.” Sam raised an eyebrow. “It worked like that for us, if you want to think back about it.”

  Barbara turned red. All she cared to remember these days was that she was respectably married, and had been for a long time. She didn’t like remembering that she’d started sleeping with Sam during the fighting, when she’d thought her then-husband dead. She especially didn’t like remembering that she’d married Sam not long before finding out her then-husband remained very much alive. Maybe the marriage wasn’t so perfectly respectable after all.

  If she hadn’t got pregnant right away, she would have gone back to Jens Larssen in a red-hot minute, too, Sam thought. He’d heard Larssen had come to a hard, bad end later on. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if Barbara had gone back to Jens. Would the physicist not have gone off the deep end? No way to tell. No way to know. Sam was pretty sure he would have been a lot less happy had she chosen the other way, though.

  Barbara said, “What on earth are we going to tell Karen?”

  “The only thing I’m going to tell her is that Jonathan’s fine,” Sam answered. “I’ve already told her that. I hope to heaven that’s the only thing you’re going to tell her, too. If Jonathan wants to tell her anything else, that’s his business. Not yours. Not mine. His. His girlfriend is his problem. He’s twenty-one.”

  “So he kept telling us.” Barbara hardly bothered hiding her bitterness “But he’s living under our roof-”

  “Not at the moment,” Sam put in.

  “And whose fault is that?” his wife demanded. “He couldn’t have gone if you hadn’t let him.”

  “It would have been harder,” Yeager admitted. “But I think he would have managed it. And if we had put our feet down, he’d be mad at us for years. When would this chance have come along again?”

  “This chance for what?” Barbara asked. “To go into space, or to go into…?” She broke off, grimacing. “Now you’ve got me doing it.”

  “Sooner or later, the Nazis will run out of upper stages and orbiting bombs,” Sam said. “Then it’ll be safe for the Lizards to let Jonathan come home.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll go out of my mind worrying,” Barbara said.

  “He’s fine,” Yeager said. “He’ll be fine.” He’d been saying that all along. Sometimes, on good days, he managed to convince himself for a little while. Most of the time, he was as nearly out of his mind with worry as his wife was. Long training in the minor leagues and in the Army had taught him not to show whether or not things were going his way at any given moment. That didn’t mean he lacked feelings, only that he kept them inside more than Barbara did.

  “He never should have gone up there.” Barbara glanced at the message-the very reassuring message-on the computer screen, shook her head, and strode out of the study.

  Yeager left the connection to the Race’s electronic network and went back to review messages he’d received in the past. The one he’d got from Straha a little before the Germans attacked Poland stuck in his mind. He examined it yet again, trying to extract fresh meaning from the shiplord’s oracular phrases.

  He had no great luck. He’d been wondering for some time whether his own superiors had it in for him. He had to wonder, since none of the people who’d tried to do bad things to h
is family and him suffered any great punishment. Some of those people hadn’t suffered anything at all that he knew of-the fellow with the Molotov cocktail, for instance.

  And how had Straha got wind of this? Probably from the hard-nosed fellow who did his errands for him. Sam wouldn’t have wanted to wind up on that guy’s bad side, not even a little he wouldn’t.

  The next interesting question was, how much did the Lizard’s man Friday know about such things? Sam realized he might know a great deal. To work for Straha, he had to have a pretty high security clearance. He also had to know a good deal about the Race. Put those together, and the odds were that he knew quite a bit about Lieutenant Colonel Sam Yeager.

  “How can I find out what he knows?” Yeager muttered. Inviting the fellow over and pumping him while they drank beer didn’t strike him as the best idea he’d ever had. He didn’t think it would do any good, and it would make the man suspicious. Of that Sam had no doubt whatever. Anybody who did what Straha’s factotum did was bound to be suspicious for a living.

  I’ll have to operate through Straha, Yeager realized. He started to telephone the defector, but then checked himself. Straha hadn’t phoned him, but had used the Race’s electronic network to pass on the message. Did that mean Straha thought his own phone was tapped, or did he worry about Yeager’s? Sam didn’t know, and didn’t care for either alternative.

  He reconnected to the Lizards’ network and asked, Did you learn of my difficulties with my superiors from your driver?

  He stared at the screen, as if expecting the answer to appear immediately. As a matter of fact, he had expected the answer to appear immediately, and felt foolish because of it. Straha had a right to be doing something other than sitting around waiting for a message from a Big Ugly named Sam Yeager.

  As long as Yeager was hooked up to the Race’s electronic network, he checked the news feeds the Lizards were giving one another. By what they were saying, they’d squashed Germany flat, and everything was over but for the mopping up. Scattered Deutsch units still refuse to acknowledge their inevitable defeat, but their resistance must soon come to an end.