Down to Earth (78 page)

And now the war had broken out once more, confining him to the starship for the time being. That would have been annoying enough by itself, but there was worse. Because he’d raised Kassquit, he was also expected to take charge of Jonathan Yeager, the wild Big Ugly who’d been brought up to the starship to mate with her.

“This is most unfair,” he complained to the starship captain after receiving the order. “Most extremely unfair, superior sir. Wild Tosevites are only a secondary interest of mine. My main concern his been civilizing Big Uglies unspoiled by their own cultures. In that I have succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations. I cannot promise a result even remotely similar with this specimen.”

“Senior Researcher, it is a Big Ugly,” the captain said. “You have made a name for yourself as an expert on Big Uglies. If this one does not deal with you, with whom will it deal? With me? I thank you, but no. I have not the patience or the expertise to deal with it. The same holds true for my officers. You are the logical candidate for the job, and you will do it. That
is
an order, Senior Researcher. Do you understand me?”

“Only too well, superior sir,” Ttomalss replied with a sigh. “Very well. It shall be done. To the best of my ability, it shall be done.”

“It is not altogether wild,” the captain reminded him, softening his manner now that he’d got his way. “It speaks our language fairly well for a Tosevite, and it has some knowledge of our culture.”

“I placed greater hopes on such epiphenomena in former days than I do now,” Ttomalss said. “They are the eggshell. The egg within, I fear, remains profoundly alien.”

“You do not have to transform it into a female of the Race.”

“Male,” Ttomalss corrected.

With a shrug, the captain said, “Whichever. It could matter only to another Big Ugly. As I was trying to tell you, it does not have to become a male of the Race. All you have to do is keep it from getting under everyone else’s scales and making males and females itch while it is up here. Eventually, it
will
return to its not-empire, after all. Go on. Tend to it.”

“It shall be done,” Ttomalss repeated miserably, and left the captain’s office.

When he returned to his own chamber, he found Jonathan Yeager waiting in the hallway outside. The wild Big Ugly assumed the posture of respect and said, “I greet you, superior sir.”

“I greet you, Jonathan Yeager,” Ttomalss replied with no great warmth. “And what can I do for you today? Is it not something Kassquit could handle for you?” Several times, he had managed to use his Tosevite ward to keep this other Big Ugly from unduly bothering him.

But Jonathan Yeager shook his head in the Tosevite negative gesture, then remembered to shape his hand into the one the Race used. “No, superior sir, Kassquit cannot handle this. That is why I wanted to talk with you.”

“Very well,” Ttomalss said, as he had to the starship captain not long before. He opened the door. As it slid wide, he went on, “Come in and tell me what you require.” The sooner he dealt with the Big Ugly, the sooner he could return to his own concerns once more.

“I thank you,” Jonathan Yeager said. As he usually did, he wore wrappings around the area of his private parts. In a way, that marked him as a wild Big Ugly. In another way, though, it simplified his outline; his projecting reproductive organs were quite different from the unobtrusive ones Kassquit had. He sat down in the seat designed for Tosevite hindquarters that Ttomalss had installed in his office.

“What is it you want, then?” the psychological researcher asked. He was certain the Big Ugly wanted something.

And, sure enough, Jonathan Yeager said, “I would like to make an arrangement to get a gift for Kassquit, superior sir. I want it to be a surprise. That is why I cannot tell her, and why I had to come to you.”

“A gift?” Ttomalss was floundering. “What sort of gift?”

“Something to show I care for her,” the Tosevite replied. “I am not sure what sorts of things I can get for her here. That is another reason I came to you: to learn what is available in the way of such things.”

“A gift to show you care for her,” Ttomalss repeated. “Care for her in the alarmingly emotional way you Tosevites tend to care for your sexual partners? Is that what you mean?”

“Well . . . yes, superior sir,” the wild Big Ugly said. “It is a custom among us, for those who are fond of each other.”

Ttomalss remembered encountering the custom, now that the Big Ugly reminded him of it. He had never thought it would matter to him. More to the point, he had never thought it would matter to Kassquit. He asked, “If you were back in your own not-empire, what gift might you give a female for whom you had conceived such a foolish and violent fondness?”

“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, of 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.