by neetha Napew
"What is your command, Exalted Fleetlord?" Kirel asked.
"Let the order be prepared for my review. I shall turn both eyes upon it the instant it appears before me. Barring unforeseen developments, I shall approve it."
"Exalted Fleetlord, it shall be done." Tailstump quivering with excitement, Kirel hurried away.
"This is Radio Deutschland." Not Radio Berlin, Moishe Russie thought as he moved his head closer to the speaker of the shortwave set. Not any more. Nor was the signal, though on the same frequency as Berlin had always used, anywhere near as strong as it had been. Instead of shouting, it was as if the Germans were whispering now, in hope of not being overheard.
"An important bulletin," the news reader went on. "The government of the Reich is grieved to report that Washington, D.C., capital of the United States of America, appears to have been the victim of a bomb of the type which recently made a martyr of Berlin. All radio transmissions from Washington ceased abruptly and without warning approximately twenty-five minutes ago; confused reports from Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Richmond speak of a pillar of fire mounting into the night sky. Our Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler, has expressed
his condolences for the American people, victims like the Germans of the insane aggression of these savage alien invaders. The Fuhrer's words—"
Russie clicked off the set. He did not care what Adolf Hitler had to say; he wished with all his heart that Hitler had been in Berlin when the Lizards dropped their bomb on it. The regime there had deserved to go tip in a pillar of fire.
But Washington! If Berlin represented everything dark and bestial in the human spirit, Washington stood for just the opposite: freedom, justice, equality... yet the Lizards destroyed them both alike.
"Yisgadal v'yiskadash shmay rabo—" Russie murmured the memorial prayer for the dead. So many would be dead, across the ocean; he remembered the posters the Germans had plastered all over Warsaw before the city fell
to the Lizards... before the Jews and the Polish Home Army rose up and helped the Lizards drive the Germans out of Warsaw.
No doubt that had been justified; without the Lizards, Russie knew he and most if not all his people would have died. That reasoning had let him support them after they entered Warsaw. Gratitude was a reasonable emotion, especially when as fully deserved as here. That the outside world thought him a traitor to mankind hurt deeply, but the outside world did not know— and refused to see— what the Nazis had done here. Better the Lizards than the SS; so he still believed.
But now— Booted feet pounded down the corridor toward his office, breaking in on his thoughts. The door flew open. The moment he saw Mordechai Anielewicz's face, he knew the fighting leader had heard. "Washington—" they both said in the same breath.
Russie was the first to find more words. "We cannot go on comfortably working with them after this, not unless we want to deserve the hatred the rest of mankind would give us for such a deed."
"Reb Moishe, you're right," Anielewicz said, the first time in a long while he'd given Russie such unqualified agreement. But where Russie thought in terms of right and wrong, the Jewish soldier almost automatically began considering ways and means. "We cannot simply rise up against them, either, not unless we want the bloodbath back again."
"Heaven forbid!" Russie said. Then he remembered something he would sooner have forgotten: "I'm supposed to go on the radio this afternoon. What shall I say? God help me, what can I say?"
"Nothing," Anielewicz answered at once. "Just the sound of your voice would make you the
Lizards' whore." He thought for a moment, then gave two words of blunt, practical advice: "Get sick."
"Zolraag won't like that. He'll think I'm faking, and he'll be right." But Russie had been a medical student; even as he spoke, his mind searched for ways to make false sickness seem real. He thought of some quickly enough; the punishment they'd inflict on him would also scourge him for letting the Lizards make him into their willing tool. "A purgative, a good strong one," he said. "A purgative and a stiff dose of ipecac."
"What's ipecac?" Anielewicz asked. Russie made ghastly retching noises. The fighter's eyes went big and round. He nodded and grinned. "That should do the job, all right. I'm glad they have you in front of the microphone instead of me."
"Ha." It wasn't a laugh, only one syllable of
resignation. But Russie thought such florid symptoms would convince Zolraag something truly was wrong with him. The epidemics in the ghetto, the endemic diseases from which all humanity suffered, seemed to horrify the Lizards, who gave no signs of being similarly afflicted. Russie would have liked to study at one of their medical schools; no doubt he would have learned more there than any Earthly physician could teach him.
"If we want this to work, we're going to have to do something else, you know," Anielewicz said. At Russie's raised eyebrow, he elaborated. "We're going to have to talk with General Bor-Komorowski. The Poles have to be in on this with us. Otherwise the Lizards will turn them loose on us and stand back and smile while we beat each other to death."
"Yes," Russie said, though he both distrusted and feared the commander of the Armja Krajowa. But he had other, more immediate
concerns. "Even if I manage not to broadcast today, I'll still have to go back to the studio next week. The week after that at the latest, if I take to my bed and swallow more ipecac in a few days." His stomach lurched unhappily at the prospect.
"Don't worry past this afternoon." Anielewicz's eyes were cold and calculating. "Yes, I can piece together enough uniforms, and I can find enough blond fighters or fellows with light brown hair."
"Why do you need fighters with—?" Russie stopped and stared. "You're going to attack the transmitter, and you want the Nazis to get the blame for it."
"Right both times," Anielewicz said. "You should have been a soldier. I just wish I had some men who weren't circumcised. Humans would know the difference. The Lizards might not, but I hate to take the chance. Some Poles
think the only thing the Germans did wrong was to leave some of us alive. They might rat on us if they get the chance."
Russie sighed. "Unfortunately, you're right. Send one of your fighters out for the ipecac and another for the purgative. I don't want to be remembered for getting either one, in case the Lizards ask questions later." He sighed. "I have the feeling I won't want to remember the next few hours anyway."
"I believe that, Reb Moishe." Anielewicz eyed him with amusement and no small respect. "You know, I think I'd rather be wounded in combat. At least then it comes as a surprise. But to deliberately do something like this to yourself..." He shook his head. "Better you than me."
"Better nobody." Russie glanced at his watch (the former property of a German who no longer needed it). "But you'd better arrange for
it quickly. The Lizards will be coming in less than three hours, and I ought to be good and sick by then." He started going through the papers on his desk. "I want to move the ones that truly matter—"
"So you can puke all over the rest," Anielewicz finished for him. "That's good. If you pay attention to the small details in a plan, that helps the big pieces go well." He touched one finger to the brim of his gray cloth cap. "I'll take care of it."
He was as good as his word. By the time the Lizard guards came to escort Russie to the studio, he wished Anielewicz had been less efficient. The Lizards hissed and drew back in dismay from his door. He could hardly blame them; the office would need an airing out before anyone wanted to work there again. A pair of good trousers weren't going to be the same any more, either.
One of the Lizards ever so cautiously poked his head back into the office. He stared at Russie, who sprawled, limp as wet blotting paper, over his chair and befouled desk. "What — wrong?" the Lizard asked in halting German.
"Must be something I ate," Russie groaned feebly. The small part of him that did not actively wish he were dead noted he was even telling the truth, perhaps the most effective way to lie ever invented. Most of him, though, felt
as if he'd been stretched too far, tied in knots, and then kneaded by a giant's fingers.
A couple of more Lizards looked in at him from the hallway. So did some people. If anything, they seemed more horrified than the Lizards, who did not have to fear catching whatever horrible disease he'd come down with and simply found him most unaesthetic.
One of the Lizards spoke into a small hand-
held radio. An answer came back, crisp and crackling. Regretfully, the Lizard advanced into the office. He spoke into the radio again, then held it out to Russie. Zolraag's voice came from the speaker: "You are ill, Reb Moishe?" the governor asked. By now his German was fairly good. "You are too ill to broadcast for us today?"
"I'm afraid I am," Russie croaked, most sincerely. He added his first untruth of the afternoon: "I'm sorry."
"I also am sorry, Reb Moishe," Zolraag answered. "I wanted your comments on the bombing of Washington, D.C., about which we would have given you full information. I know you would say this shows the need for your kind to give up their foolish fight against our stronger weapons."
Russie groaned again, partly from weakness, partly because he'd expected Zolraag to tell
him something like that. He said, "Excellency, I cannot speak now. When I am well, I will decide what I can truthfully say about what your people have done."
"I am sure we will agree on what you would say," Zolraag told him. The governor was trying to be subtle, but hadn't really found the knack. He went on, "But for now, you must get over your sickness. I hope your doctors can cure you of it."
He sounded unconvinced of the skills of human physicians. Russie wondered again what wonders Lizard medical experts could work. He said, "Thank you, Excellency. I hope to be better in a few days. This sort of illness is not one which is usually fatal."
"As you say." Again, Zolraag seemed dubious. Russie supposed he had reason. When the Lizards broke into Warsaw, thousands of starving Jews in the ghetto had suffered from
one form of intestinal disease or another, and a great many had died. The governor continued, "If you want, my males will take you from your office to your home."
"Thank you, Excellency, but no," Russie said. "I would like to preserve as much as possible the illusion of free agency." He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Better if the Lizards kept on thinking of him as a willing cat's-paw. He hoped Zolraag wouldn't understand what he'd said.
But the Lizard did. Worse, he approved. "Yes, this illusion is worth holding to, Reb Moishe," he answered, confirming that, as far as he was concerned, Russie's freedom of action was an illusion. Even in his battered, nauseated state, he felt anger stir.
The governor spoke in his own hissing language. The Lizard who held the radiotelephone answered, then skittered out
of Russia's office with every evidence of relief. He and the rest of the aliens left the Jewish headquarters; Russie listened to their claws clicking on linoleum.
A few minutes later, Mordechai Anielewicz came back in. He wrinkled his nose. "It stinks like a burst sewer pipe in here, Reb Moishe," he said. "Let's clean you up a little and get you home."
Russie surrendered himself to the fighting leader's blunt, practical ministrations. He let Anielewicz manhandle him down the stairs. Waiting on the street was a bicycle with a sidecar. Anielewicz poured him into it, then climbed onto the little saddle and started pedaling.
"Such personal concern," Russie said. The wind blowing in his face did a little to revive him. "I'm honored."
"If I'd brought a car for you, then you'd have some business being honored," Anielewicz said, laughing. Russie managed a wan chuckle himself. These days, gasoline was more precious than rubies in Warsaw: rubies, after all, remained rubies, but gasoline, once burned, was gone forever. Even diesel fuel for fire engines was in desperately short supply.
A few dry leaves whirled through the streets on the chilly fall breeze, but only a few; a lot of trees had been cut down for fuel. More would fall this winter, Russie thought, and buildings wrecked in two rounds of fighting would be cannibalized for wood. Warsaw would be an uglier city when the fighting ended— if it ever did.
Rain began falling from the lead-gray sky. Mordechai Anielewicz reached up, yanked down the brim of his cap so it did a better job of covering his eyes. He said, "It's set. We'll have a go at the transmitter tomorrow night.
Stay sick till then."
"What happens if you don't take it out?" Russie asked.
Anielewicz's laugh had a grim edge to it. "If we don't take it out, Reb Moishe, two things happen. One is that some of my fighters will be dead. And the other is that you'll have to go on taking your medicines, so that by this time next week you'll likely end up envying them."
Maybe the fighting leader meant it for a joke, but Russie didn't find it funny. He felt as if the Gestapo had been kicking him in the belly. His mouth tasted like— on second thought, he didn't want to try to figure out what his mouth tasted like.
Many of the Jews the Nazis forced into the Warsaw ghetto had left it since the Lizards came (many more, of course, were dead). Even so, the streets remained crowded. Adroit
as a footballer dodging through defensemen toward the goal, Anielewicz steered his bicycle past pushcarts, rickshaws, hordes of other bicycles, and swarms of men and women afoot. No one seemed willing to yield a centimeter of space to anyone else, but somehow no one ran into anyone else, either.
Then, suddenly, there was space. Anielewicz stopped hard. A squad of Lizards tramped past on patrol. They looked cold and miserable. One turned his strange eyes resentfully up toward the weeping sky. Another wore a child's coat. He hadn't figured out buttons, but held the coat closed with one hand while the other clutched his weapon.
As soon as the Lizards moved on, the crowds closed in again. Anielewicz said, "If those poor creatures think it's cold now, what will they do come January?"
Freeze, was the answer that immediately
sprang into Russie's mind. But he knew he was probably wrong. The Lizards knew more than mankind about so many things; no doubt they had some simple way to keep themselves warm out in the open. That patrol certainly had looked chilly, though.
Anielewicz pulled up in front of the apartment block where Russie lived. "Can you make it up to your flat?" he asked.
"Let's see." Russie unfolded himself from the sidecar. He wobbled when he took a couple of tentative steps, but stayed on his feet. "Yes, I'll manage."
"Good. If I had to walk you up, I'd worry about the bicycle being here when I got back. Now I can worry about other things instead." Anielewicz nodded to Russie and rode off.
Had Moishe felt more nearly alive, he might have laughed at the way people in the
courtyard started to come up to greet him, then took a better look and retreated faster than they'd advanced. He didn't blame them; he would have sheered off from himself, too. If he didn't look horribly contagious, it wasn't from lack of effort.
He turned the key, walked into his flat; one perquisite of his position was that his family had it all to themselves. His wife whirled round in surprise. "Moishe! What are you doing here so early?" Rivka said, starting to smile. Then she got a good look at him— and maybe a good whiff of him as well— and asked a better question: "Moishe! What happened to you?"
He sighed. "The Lizards happened to me."
She stared at him, her eyes wide in a face that, while not skeletal as it had been a few months before, was still too thin. "The Lizards did— that— to you?"
"Not directly," he answered. "What the Lizards did was to treat Washington, D.C., exactly as they had Berlin, and to expect me to be exactly as happy about it."
Rivka did not much concern herself with politics; the struggle, for survival had taken all her energy. But she was no fool. "They wanted you to praise them for destroying Washington? They must be meshugge."
"That's what I thought, so I got sick." Moishe explained how he'd manufactured his illness on short notice.
"Oh, than
k God. When I saw you, I was afraid you'd come down with something dreadful."
"I feel pretty dreadful," Russie said. Though drugs rather than bacteria induced his illness, his insides had still gone through a wringer. The only difference was that he would not stay sick unless it proved expedient.
His little son, Reuven, wandered out of the bedroom. The boy wrinkled his nose. "Why does Father smell funny?"
"Never mind." Rivka Russie turned briskly practical. "We're going to get him cleaned up right now." She hurried into the kitchen. The water had been reliable since the Lizards took the town. She came back with a bucket and a rag. "Go into the bedroom, Moishe; hand me out your filthy clothes, clean yourself off, and put on something fresh. You'll be better for it."