Down to Earth (61 page)

They caressed each other and stroked each other and kissed each other all over. Floating free as they did, who was on top was a matter of opinion, unimportant opinion. Presently, a little awkwardly, he went into her. She wrapped her arms and legs around his back. He used one hand to snag a handhold and the other to keep on stroking her down where they were joined.

That brought her along about as quickly as he came himself: he’d gone without a long time. Then, before long, there were other little moist, sticky droplets floating in the air. They both hunted them down with rags. “Messy,” he said with a grin, as happy and relaxed as he’d been for a long time.

“It always is,” Lucy said. “Usually, though, men don’t have to pay attention to it.” He shrugged and snagged another drop before it hit a wall. The world was still every bit as liable to blow up as it had been half an hour before, but that didn’t seem to matter nearly so much.

Kassquit read each day’s news reports with mounting alarm. The Race had made it very plain to the Deutsche that any aggression the Big Uglies tried would be punished manyfold. The Deutsche had to understand that. But here they were, sounding fiercer and more determined every day.

“Are they addled?” she demanded of Ttomalss in the starship’s refectory. “They must know what will happen to them if they go on. You were among them for a while. Why do they not believe us?”

“Tosevites have a greater capacity for self-delusion than do males and females of the Race,” Ttomalss answered, and Kassquit knew no small pride that he spoke to her as if she were a female of the Race. He went on, “Past that, I will only say that fathoming their motivations remains difficult if not impossible.”

“They cannot hope to defeat us,” Kassquit exclaimed.

Ttomalss waved at the males and females (mostly males, for this ship had orbited Tosev 3 since the arrival of the conquest fleet, and still carried a large part of its old crew) of the Race in the refectory with them. “Our kind is relatively homogeneous,” he said. “Big Uglies are more variable. We come from one culture; they still have many very different cultures. We are discovering that cultural differences can be almost as important as genetic variation. We had some evidence of this in the assimilation of the Hallessi, but it is much more striking here.”

“I can see how it might be.” Kassquit looked down at her soft, scaleless arms; at the preposterous organs on her chest that secreted, or could secrete, nutritive fluid; at the itchy stubble between her legs that reminded her she would soon need to shave it off again. “After all, what am I but a Big Ugly with cultural differences?”

“Exactly so,” Ttomalss said, which was the last thing she wanted to hear. More often than not, Ttomalss hadn’t the faintest idea he’d upset her; this time, for a wonder, he noticed, and amended his words: “You are a Tosevite citizen of the Empire, the first but surely not the last.”

“There are times—there are many times—when I wish I could be altogether of the Race,” Kassquit said wistfully.

“Culturally, you are,” Ttomalss said, which she couldn’t deny. He went on, “Physiologically, you are not, and you cannot be. But that has not stopped either the Rabotevs or the Hallessi from becoming full participants in imperial life.”

That was also a truth. But it was only a partial truth. Kassquit said, “Both the Rabotevs and the Hallessi are more similar to the Race—physiologically and psychologically—than Big Uglies are.”

“We have known from the beginning that assimilating this planet would be harder than incorporating Rabotev 2 or Halless 1,” Ttomalss answered. “But we are willing—indeed, we have no choice but—to expend the time and effort necessary to do what must be done.” He let his mouth fall open and waggled his lower jaw: wry laughter. “They are very perturbed back on Home. We have just received answers to some of our early communications after we discovered the true nature of this world. They are wondering if any of us still survive.”

“Considering the attitude of the Deutsche, they have a right to be worried,” Kassquit said. “If the
Reich
has a missile targeted on this ship, we could die in the next instant, probably before we even knew we were hit.”

“If that happens—if anything like that happens—the
Reich
will cease to exist,” Ttomalss said. “The Deutsche have to know as much. They have to.” He sounded as if he was trying to reassure himself as well as Kassquit.

“But do they truly grasp it?” Kassquit persisted. “They have shown no sign of doing so. And even if they are smashed, can they weaken us enough to leave us vulnerable to uprisings from the areas we rule, or to attacks from the SSSR or the USA?”

“I am not the fleetlord; I do not know such things,” Ttomalss said. “What I do know is that we will destroy all the Tosevites if we ever appear to be in danger of being conquered ourselves.”

What felt like a lump of ice formed in Kassquit’s belly. She tried to call up a word, and could not. “In ancient days, when incurable disease was spreading—”

“Quarantine,” Ttomalss said, this time following her thought well. Kassquit made the affirmative gesture. The male who had reared her continued, “Yes, that is the planned strategy. Tosevites here in this solar system can be managed, one way or another. Tosevites who might travel between the stars in their own ships . . . We cannot permit it. We shall not permit it.”

That made sense. If it meant exterminating Kassquit’s biological species . . . it still made sense. She could see as much. The idea of wild Big Uglies with starships—in essence, wild Big Uglies with a conquest fleet of their own—was truly horrifying. What might they do to Home or other planets of the Empire, all of which were essentially undefended? Far worse than the Race had done on Tosev 3: she was sure of that. They wouldn’t want to colonize Home—they’d want to smash it.

Alternatives? Well, she herself was one of the alternatives. “We have to do everything we can to keep them from seeking such a thing, which means we have to do everything we can to assimilate them before they are technically able to do such a thing.”

“Truth.” Ttomalss added an emphatic cough.

“In aid of which,” Kassquit said, “how are the arrangements going for another meeting between the American Tosevites and me?”

“Fairly well,” her mentor answered. “For some reason, the Americans seem more hesitant now than they were before, but I still expect matters to be resolved before long.”

“Who among the Americans is hesitant?” Kassquit asked in some surprise. “In my communications with Sam Yeager, he expresses eagerness, and says his hatchling feels the same way.”

“In the hatchling’s case, if not in that of the elder Yeager, such eagerness may in part be related to sexual desire,” Ttomalss said dryly.

Not for the first time, Kassquit was glad her face didn’t show what she felt. A pang of longing? It startled her. It embarrassed her. But it was there. She didn’t want to think about it, and so, resolutely, she didn’t. All she said was, “They showed no signs of it at the last meeting. And, if it is a factor, it is certainly not the only one involved.”

“There I would agree with you,” Ttomalss replied. “And, so long as you want them, I also want these meetings to go forward, as I have said. I shall do everything I can to resolve the difficulties, which appear to be bureaucratic in nature.”

“I thank you, superior sir.” Kassquit got to her feet, towering over the males and females in the refectory. She set her tray and bowl and utensils on the conveyor that took them off to be washed and reused, then went back to her cubicle. That little space gave her as much privacy as she could get aboard the starship. Somewhere, though, a tiny camera recorded everything she did. She was a Tosevite citizen of the Empire, true. But she was also a specimen for the Race to study.

She wished Ttomalss hadn’t told her about the camera. Now, when she felt the overpowering need to stroke her private parts—as she sometimes did—she also felt even more constraint and guilt than she had before. It wasn’t just that her biology made her different from the Race, not any more. It was also that Ttomalss—and other males and females—could watch her being different, and could scorn her for the differences.

As she checked for electronic messages, though, she let her mouth fall open in a laugh. The idea that struck her wasn’t funny enough to make her laugh out loud—another difference rooted in Tosevite biology. But ginger had made the Race’s reproductive behavior more like that prevailing down on Tosev 3. Ttomalss and other males and females—especially Felless, whom she intensely disliked—were no longer in such a good position to criticize what she did.

Sure enough, a couple of messages awaited her. One, assuming she truly did belong to the Race, tried to sell her a new, improved fingerclaw trimmer. She wondered how, after so many millennia of civilization, a fingerclaw trimmer could possibly be improved. Most likely, the merchant selling it had been on Tosev 3 so long, he’d acquired Tosevite notions of extravagant advertising. Kassquit deleted that one without a qualm.

The other message came from Sam Yeager.
Your people are being kind of picky about letting Jonathan and me come up for a second visit,
he wrote.
Seems they do not want an American spacecraft linking up with one of your starships. Hard to blame them, with the Deutsche making such nuisances of themselves, but we Americans are still mostly harmless.

Kassquit pondered that. How was she supposed to take it? Tone was hard to gauge on electronic messages anyhow, and she had all the more trouble because Sam Yeager was a Big Ugly. She also noted that the story he told was different from the one she’d got from Ttomalss. She didn’t suppose that should have surprised her; Tosevites were even more reluctant to admit they could be at fault than were males or females of the Race.

Would it be possible for you and your hatchling to fly here in one of our shuttlecraft?
she asked.

No immediate answer came back, which didn’t surprise her. Sam Yeager’s message wasn’t very recent, and he’d doubtless gone off to do other things instead of sitting at his computer waiting for her reply. She read for a while, then returned to the computer to check the news—the Deutsche still sounded as bellicose as ever—and then, in an act that brought her as much pleasure from defiance as from physical sensation, turned off the lights in the cubicle and caressed herself.

No doubt the camera monitored infrared. The watchers would know what she was doing even with the lights out. While she was doing it, she didn’t care. That was a mixture of defiance and physical sensation, too. She’d seen videos of Big Uglies mating—more products of the Race’s research on Tosevites. She wasn’t usually in the habit of imagining herself in one of those videos, but today she did: another act of defiance. And she imagined the male with which she was doing the improbable deed had Jonathan Yeager’s face.

After the pleasure faded, the shame for what she’d done seemed all the greater. As she turned the lights back on and washed her hands, she sighed. She wished her body wouldn’t drive her to such extremes. But it did, and she had to come to terms with that.

A fair stretch of the day went by before Sam Yeager answered her.
I think you have a good idea there,
he wrote.
I will pass it on to my superiors. You do the same on your side of the fence, and we shall see what happens next.

Good enough,
Kassquit wrote back, adding,
I hope your own superiors will not prove difficult,
to see how he would respond.

Well, they may,
he answered, this time promptly.
They do not trust me so far as I would like, it seems. But I am useful to them, and so they just have to put up with me.

That sounds like my own position here,
Kassquit wrote in some surprise. She wondered how Sam Yeager had fallen foul of his own kind. Not through looking the wrong way, anyhow: he looked like a typical Big Ugly. Maybe he would explain if he did come up to the starship again.

 
16

Nesseref let out a soft, astonished hiss as she guided the shuttlecraft down toward the Tosevite city called Los Angeles. She hadn’t realized the Big Uglies built on such a scale. Few structures seemed very tall, but built-up areas stretched as far as her eye turrets could turn.

A Tosevite speaking the language of the Race said, “This is Los Angeles International Airport. Shuttlecraft, you are cleared for your final descent. All airplane traffic has been diverted from the area.”

“I should hope so!” Nesseref exclaimed. That the Big Uglies didn’t take the notion of clearing air traffic for granted, that they felt they had to mention it, chilled her. How many mishaps did their air travel system allow?

She didn’t care to think about that. There was the concrete expanse of the airport. The radio beacon had guided the shuttlecraft well enough. Now she saw the visual beacons, too, the ones that would mark out her precise landing spot.

As she had while in Cairo, she let her fingerclaw hover above the switch that would fire the braking rockets if the shuttlecraft’s electronics didn’t do the job. But the braking rockets ignited when they should have. Deceleration pressed her into her seat.
Just routine,
she told herself. Landing at a port under the Big Uglies’ control wasn’t quite routine, but she’d done it before. Once more shouldn’t be a problem.

Controlled by the computer, the braking rockets started burning just as the shuttlecraft’s landing legs touched the concrete. “Very neat job there,” the Big Ugly monitoring the descent said. “We will bring out more fuel and liquid oxygen for you, and also your passengers.”

“I thank you,” Nesseref answered, though she didn’t feel particularly thankful. She just hoped the Tosevites knew what they were doing. Even the Race treated liquid hydrogen with a great deal of respect. If the Big Uglies didn’t, they’d put her in danger.

But everything seemed to go as it should. The trucks the Big Uglies sent out had fittings that matched those of her oxygen and fuel tanks. She’d been told the fittings were supposed to be standardized, but was glad to find reality matching her suppositions. And the Tosevites handling the hoses exercised as much caution as they should have.

When the vehicles carrying the hydrogen and oxygen had withdrawn, a Tosevite motorcar approached the shuttlecraft. Two Big Uglies got out of it. One wore wrappings of a color not far removed from that of his own skin. The other . . . Nesseref stared at the image of the other in her monitor with more than a little bemusement. He wore minimal wrappings, shaved the hair on his head, and had body paint on his torso. She had heard some Big Uglies aped the styles of the Race, but had seldom seen it for herself—it was uncommon in Poland, and for all practical purposes nonexistent in Cairo.

She was supposed to fly two Tosevites up to a starship. She supposed these were the ones; after they got out, the motorcar had turned around and driven away. Making sure struck her as a good idea. She used the external speaker: “You are the American Tosevites Sam Yeager and Jonathan Yeager?” No doubt she was making a hash of the alien names, but she couldn’t help that.

“We are, superior sir,” answered the Big Ugly in the tan wrappings. “Mind if we join you?”

“Superior female, if you please,” Nesseref said. “Yes, you have permission to come aboard. This shuttlecraft has been fitted with seats suitable to your species.” She undogged the hatch and let in some of the local atmosphere, which was cool and moist and left the odor of partially burned hydrocarbons on her scent receptors.

“I am sorry,” the same Tosevite said as he came through the hatch. “We cannot tell your gender by voice, as we can among our own kind.” He spoke the language of the Race well, and seemed to have some feeling for proper behavior. As he lay down on one of the seats, he continued, “I am Sam Yeager, and this is my hatchling, whose familiar name is Jonathan.”

“I greet you, superior female,” said the Tosevite who wore the body paint of a psychologist’s assistant.

“I greet you . . . Jonathan Yeager.” Nesseref hoped she had that right. Neither Big Ugly corrected her, so she supposed she did. She went on, “We do not have long to wait before leaving for the rendezvous with the starship. Do you mind my asking the purpose of your visit?”

“By no means,” said Sam Yeager, evidently the superior of the two. “We are going to meet one of our fellow Big Uglies.” Nesseref wondered if he’d correctly understood the question. He proved he had by adding, “Yes, I mean exactly what I say there.”

“Very well,” Nesseref replied with a shrug. She had an eye turret on the chronometer, which showed the launch window rapidly approaching. When the proper moment came, she ignited the shuttlecraft’s motors. Both Big Uglies grunted under acceleration, and both behaved well when it cut off and weightlessness began.

Docking was quick and routine. Nesseref could have gone aboard the starship while waiting for the proper time to descend from orbit and return to Poland, but she didn’t bother. She just stayed where she was, enjoying a little weightlessness while knowing too much wasn’t good for her.

When she did leave the docking station at the starship’s central hub, she used her maneuvering jets to get clear of the great ship, then fired her braking rockets to fall out of orbit and down toward the surface of Tosev 3. She traveled, of course, from west to east, with the direction of the planet’s rotation, which meant she had to pass above the territory of the Greater German
Reich
before reaching Poland.

“Do not deviate from your course,” a Deutsch Big Ugly warned. “You and you alone will be responsible for the consequences if you do.”

“I do not intend to deviate,” Nesseref answered. “The
Reich
will be responsible for any aggression, as I am sure you know.”

“Do not threaten me,” the Tosevite said, and used an emphatic cough. “Do not threaten my not-empire, either. We are seeking our legitimate rights, nothing more, and we will have them. You cannot prevent it. You had better not try to prevent it.”

Silence seemed the best response to that, and silence was what Nesseref gave it. Despite bluster, the Deutsch Big Uglies did not seek to attack the shuttlecraft. Nesseref let out a long sigh of relief as she landed at the port between Warsaw and Lodz whose construction she’d supervised.

“This is the first time in a while I have heard anyone be glad to return to Poland,” a male in the control center said as she arranged ground transportation to her home. “Many males and females are looking for the chance to escape.”

“If war comes, who knows which places will be safe?” Nesseref said. “Weapons can land anywhere.”

“That is a truth, superior female,” the males said. “Weapons
can
land anywhere. But if war comes, weapons
will
land on Poland.”

And that was also a truth, even if one Nesseref didn’t care to contemplate. She also didn’t care to discover that no male or female of the Race was heading toward the new town in which she lived. The only driver available was a scrawny Big Ugly with an ancient, decrepit motorcar of Tosevite manufacture. Nesseref was anything but eager to entrust herself to it.

That must have shown, for the Big Ugly let loose one of the barking laughs of his kind and spoke in the language of the Race: “You flew between the stars. Are you afraid to drive to your apartment?”

“When I flew between the stars, I was in cold sleep,” Nesseref replied with dignity. “I will be awake to experience this, worse luck.”

The Tosevite laughed again. “That is funny. But come, get in. I have not killed anyone yet, even myself.”

Nesseref found that a dubious recommendation, but did climb into the motorcar, which had the right-side front seat modified to fit a posterior of the sort the Race had. But the motorcar boasted no safety straps of any kind. And, she rapidly discovered, the Big Ugly drove as if he labored under the delusion of being a killercraft pilot. Traveling a relatively short distance along a narrow, asphalt-topped road proved more terrifying than all the shuttlecraft flying Nesseref had ever done.

In the shuttlecraft, of course, she had radar and collision avoidance alarms and radio to talk with the ground and with other pilots in the neighborhood. Here she and the driver had no aids whatever. All the other Big Uglies on the road drove with the same reckless disregard for life and limb as he displayed.

“Madness!” Nesseref exclaimed as he passed a lorry and then swung back into his lane so that another lorry, this one oncoming, missed him by a scale’s thickness. She was too rattled even to bother appending an emphatic cough.

“You want to get home as soon as you can: is that not a truth?” the driver asked.

“I want to get there alive,” Nesseref answered. This time, she did use an emphatic cough. It felt very emphatic, in fact.

“Is that really so important?” the Big Ugly said. “In the end, what difference will it make? When the war comes, you will be dead either way.”

“Do you want to die sooner than you must?” Nesseref returned. She thought she would die in the next instant, when an animal-drawn wagon blithely started to cross the road on which she was traveling. But the Tosevite lunatic handling the motorcar had quick reflexes, even if he had no sense. Its suspension swaying, the motorcar dodged the wagon.

“That fellow is a fool,” the driver said; Nesseref was convinced he said so because he had no trouble recognizing others of his own kind. After a moment, he went on, “I am a Jew. Do you know what the Deutsche did to Jews when they held Poland?” He didn’t wait for her answer, but continued, “They could not kill me then. And I do not think they or anyone else will have an easy time killing me now.”

If the way he drove hadn’t killed him, Nesseref doubted explosive-metal bombs or poison gases could do the trick. But she asked, “If war does come, what will you do?”

He hesitated there no more than he did on the roadway: “Fight the Deutsche as long as I can. I have a rifle. I know what to do with it. If they want me, they will have to pay a high price for me.”

With a squeal from his overworked, underpowered brakes, he pulled to a stop in front of Nesseref’s building. She got out of his motorcar with so much relief, she almost forgot the bag in which she carried her personal belongings. The Big Ugly called her back to get it. He might be maniacal, but he wasn’t larcenous.

When she got up to her apartment, Orbit greeted her with a yawn that displayed his mouthful of sharply pointed teeth. It was hard to impress a tsiongi. Had she bought a beffel, it would have danced around her and jumped up on her, squeaking wildly all the time. But a beffel would have wrecked the apartment while she was gone. Orbit didn’t do things like that.

One of the pieces of mail she’d picked up was a flyer that began,
IN CASE OF EMERGENCY
. The emergency it was talking about was a Deutsch attack. Nesseref began to wonder if she should have been glad to come home.

Every step Sam Yeager took out from the hub of the starship made him feel heavier. Every step he took also made him hotter; the Race favored temperatures like those of a very hot day in Los Angeles. Turning to his son, he said, “You’re dressed for the weather better than I am, that’s for sure.”

As at his previous meeting with Kassquit, Jonathan wore only a pair of shorts. He nodded and said, “You must be dying in that uniform.”

“I’ll get by.” Sam chuckled. “Kassquit’ll be better dressed for it than either one of us.” Jonathan didn’t answer that; Sam suspected he’d embarrassed his son by implying that he noticed what a woman was or wasn’t wearing.

Somewhat to his surprise, the Lizard leading them to Kassquit turned out to speak English. He said, “The whole notion of wrappings, except to protect yourselves from the nasty cold on Tosev 3, is nothing but foolishness.”

“No.” Sam made the negative hand gesture. He thought about going into the language of the Race, but decided not to; English was better suited to the subject matter. “Clothes are also part of our sexual display. Sometimes they keep us from thinking about mating, but sometimes they make us think about it.”