Down to Earth (80 page)

He chose one by eye. They’d always orbited higher than upper stages usually did, and had moved higher still after the war with the
Reich
broke out. He could have fired up his radar to see exactly how far they’d moved, but he would have been shouting
Here I am!
if he did. Instead, he eyeballed a starship out ahead of him. If he could get close before turning on the radar and launching his missiles . . .

His calculations were automatic, instinctive, like a fighter pilot’s. If it was at that altitude, it was moving about so fast, which meant he’d need a burn of about so long to take himself out of his present orbit and put him into firing position. If the Lizards were alert and blasted him into wreckage before he could launch, they’d win. If they weren’t . . . He sighed. If they weren’t, they’d blow him into wreckage after he launched.

Soldiers, unfortunately, found themselves in such positions now and again. His finger poked the button that started his engine. The acceleration wasn’t enormous, but he hadn’t felt any acceleration at all for most of a month. Any at all made him seem to weigh five hundred kilos.

He used his fuel lavishly. It wasn’t as if he’d be coming back. The starship he’d chosen as a target grew brighter and brighter, then started showing a visible disk. Drucker knew he’d be visible, too, on every Lizard radar screen in the neighborhood. That starship couldn’t run away, not as massive as it was. They would need to interpose, or to come at him from some other direction, before he got close enough to do what he’d set out to do.

Now he did light up his radar. It showed the starship dead ahead, with just about the range and velocity he’d guessed. “I have good eyeballs,” he said with a chuckle. If he was going to go out, he’d go out laughing—and as a colonel, no less.

And he thought he would take the starship with him. The Lizards never had been good at reacting to the unexpected. None of their missiles headed his way. None of their spacecraft designed to fight in orbit—nastier creatures than
Hans-Ulrich Bus
—showed up on his screen. Somewhere on their starships, they were probably yelling back and forth at one another, trying to figure out what the devil to do. He didn’t need to figure. He was already doing.

No, here came one of their spacecraft, under what looked like pretty good acceleration. But it was late, late. He used the attitude jets to align the nose of
Hans-Ulrich Bus
on the starship. And then his thumb and forefinger found the red switch he’d never thought he would use. He pulled it out and activated it, then flipped it first to the left, then to the right.

His upper stage shuddered as the missiles left their tubes with puffs of compressed gas. When they were far enough from
Hans-Ulrich Bus
, their motors came on. The radars they carried guided them straight toward the Lizards’ starship, less than fifty kilometers away.

Drucker cursed horribly a moment later, for the Lizards aboard the starship weren’t asleep after all. Countermissiles leaped away no more than a heartbeat after he launched his. One of his blew up almost at once. The other, though—the other bored in on its target. “Come on,” Drucker whispered. “Come on!” The missiles, had proximity fuses set to detonate them a hundred meters from a ship’s skin. Would that one get through? All the countermissiles had missed it. If the Lizards didn’t do something nasty . .

They did. Something sparkled along the starship’s centerline: a close-in weapon system, nothing more dramatic than a computerized heavy machine-gun battery—and the missile exploded in a fireball made up not of bursting atoms but of bursting fuel tanks. Over. It was all over. Drucker swung
Hans-Ulrich’s Bus
by the attitude jets so he could face the oncoming Lizard spacecraft. Without hope and without fear, he readied himself for his last fight.

“Deutsch upper stage!” That was a Lizard, speaking the language of the Race. “Surrender, Deutsch upper stage. You have no more missiles. You can do no more significant harm. Your not-empire is in ruins. What can you gain by further senseless sacrifice?”

That was a good question. The longer Drucker thought about it, the better it looked. He swung his thumb from the machine-gun trigger to the radio switch. “Male of the Race, I have no good answer for you,” he said wearily. “You have me. I do not know what you will do with me. At the moment, I do not much care what you will do with me. Whatever it is, you have me. I surrender.”

“What can I do for you today, Shiplord?” Straha’s driver asked.

“I cannot think of anything,” Straha answered. “If I need anything, you may be certain that I shall not be shy in letting you know.”

His driver bent into the posture of respect. It was half true subordination, half mockery. The Tosevite had at least as much power in their relationship as did Straha himself. “I have no doubt that you will. In the meantime, if it suits you, I will do some work on your motorcar.”

“Go ahead,” Straha told him. “You could just as easily take it to someone specializing in repairs, you know. Funds would appear to be adequate for any necessary expenditures.” Considering that the government of the not-empire of the United States paid for everything connected with Straha’s upkeep, funds were bound to be adequate.

But the driver said, “I enjoy working on machinery. I would rather do it myself. That way, I am sure it is done right.”

“Whatever pleases you,” Straha replied. Now that he thought about it, he shouldn’t even have tried to discourage the Big Ugly. With him out on the street tinkering with balky Tosevite machinery, Straha could come closer to living a normal, or at least an unspied-upon, life.

When Straha looked out the kitchen window a little later, he saw his driver bent over the engine compartment of the motorcar, happily repairing something or other. The ex-shiplord shrugged. He’d also known males and females of the Race who enjoyed messing about with machines. He had never understood the excitement himself—but then, most Big Uglies saw his gardening as a waste of time.

Straha hurried to his study and turned on the computer that connected him to the Race’s computer network. Since his connection was highly unofficial—even more so than Sam Yeager’s—he didn’t get very many electronic messages, but a synthesized voice announced that he had one today. It was, he noted without surprise, from Yeager, under his pseudonym of Maargyees.

I greet you, Shiplord,
the Tosevite had written.
I wonder if we could possibly meet without your driver ‘s knowing about it.

Perhaps,
Straha replied.
It may not be easy. Are you sure it is necessary?
He wondered what the Tosevite had in mind. Something to do with one of the places into which Yeager had pushed his unwelcome snout, unless Straha missed his guess.

He also wondered if he would get an answer right away. The Tosevite had sent the message much earlier in the morning. But he stayed by the computer for a little while, on the off chance that Yeager was sitting in front of his, as he sometimes did.

And, sure enough, a reply came back quite quickly.
Yes, I am sure it is necessary,
Yeager wrote, and appended the conventional symbol for an emphatic cough.
I must trust someone. In that particular mess, I would sooner trust you than any of my Tosevite acquaintances.

I am honored,
Straha wrote back.
But are you sure you would not be better served by one of your fellow Big Uglies?

I am sure of nothing,
Yeager responded.
I have done a great deal of thinking, but my way is not plain any more. I do not think my way will ever be plain again.

As you know, my driver clings to me as if he were a parasite under my scales,
Straha wrote.
I do not know if I can arrange to have him disappear. I also do not know if l should.

Well, you will do as you see fit,
Yeager wrote back.
If you decide to make the arrangement, let me know. In all fairness, I should tell you that seeing me about this business may be risky for you.

Are you yourself in danger now?
Straha asked.

I have been in danger for some time,
the Tosevite answered.
Had I not been careful—and lucky—I would be dead. That is why I want to see you: if I die suddenly and mysteriously, I want you to avenge me.

That was stark enough. Many ancient classics from the Race’s literature and videos revolved around such themes. Straha hadn’t thought he would find himself caught in the middle of one, though. Something else occurred to him. He wrote,
This may involve me in no small amount of danger, then. Is that not a truth?

Yes, Shiplord, Jam afraid that is a truth, and I am sorry for it,
Yeager answered. He was honest; Straha had seen as much many times.
If you do not wish to do it, I will understand, and I will look for someone else.

Not necessary,
Straha wrote at once.
Come here at midday tomorrow If you see the motorcar in front of the house, I will not have succeeded in getting my driver to go elsewhere. If it is gone, you are welcome. Actually, you will be welcome in any case, but you might well make the driver suspicious.

I understand. I thank you. It shall be done. Goodbye.

Goodbye,
Straha wrote, but Yeager would probably get that message later. The ex-shiplord paused a while in thought. At last, he found an idea that satisfied him. In fact, he quite liked it. Had he been a Big Ugly, he would have used the curious grimace the Tosevites called smiling.

After a while, his driver came inside, greasy to the elbows and with a smile of his own on his face. He was indeed one of those individuals who enjoyed tinkering for the sake of tinkering. Straha asked, “Is everything now operating as it should?”

“Couldn’t be better,” the driver answered in English as he started cleaning himself off. His mind was plainly elsewhere, or he would have stuck to the language of the Race.

“Excellent.” Straha did stay with his own tongue. “I would like you to drive down to the Race’s consulate in the center of the city tomorrow for me, and to bring back a selection of new books and videos. The ones I have are growing stale.”

As he’d expected, that made the driver’s smile disappear. “Oh, very well,” the Big Ugly said at last. “I do not suppose you can go to the consulate yourself, not when you would be seized and spirited away if you tried. But I must tell you that I will also use the visit as an opportunity to brief my own superiors, who are based not far away.”

“If you must.” Straha sounded sulky. The driver was punishing him. His report would take some time, which meant he would be later bringing back the things Straha wanted. But Straha also wanted other things, things the driver didn’t know about. And to keep the Big Ugly from wondering if they might be there, the ex-shiplord had to act as if they weren’t.

Rubbing in the punishment, his driver went on, “I will not want to start until late morning, to escape the worst of the traffic.”

“Yes, think of your convenience first, and then of mine,” Straha complained, though he was laughing inside.

In fact, the Big Ugly waited so long to leave the next day that Straha feared he would still be there when Sam Yeager arrived. Straha couldn’t hurry him too much, either, not without rousing his suspicions. But he drove off not long before Yeager pulled up.

“I greet you,” Straha said, opening the door for his friend.

“And I greet you, Shiplord,” the Tosevite replied. “I also thank you from the bottom of my heart.” That was an English idiom translated literally into the language of the Race. “You are a true friend.”

“I feel the same about you,” Straha said truthfully. “Now, tell me of this trouble, and of how I can help you with it.” He led Yeager to the front room and got him comfortable on the sofa where his driver usually sat. “Can I bring you some alcohol? Some of that nasty bourbon you favor, perhaps?”

“That would be very good,” Yeager said. “But can we talk in your garden out back?”

He didn’t say why, but Straha had no trouble figuring out the answer: he feared things said inside the house might be recorded. Straha didn’t know if they were or not, but recognized they might be. He said, “Of course. Go on out. I will follow with your drink, and with one for me.”

His own drink was vodka without ice; like most members of the Race, he found whiskey of any sort vile. He carried the two glasses out to the backyard. For him, the weather was cool but not cold. Yeager, he judged, would find it ideal.

They sipped their glasses of alcohol, one flavored, one not. A hummingbird buzzed among the flowers, then flew off with startling speed. “Do you care to begin?” Straha asked.

“I wish I did not have to begin,” the Big Ugly answered. Straha realized, slower than he should have, that Yeager wasn’t wearing his usual uniform, but the wrappings a civilian would have chosen. What made the ex-shiplord notice was the Tosevite’s pulling a sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his upper outer wrapping—a jacket, that was the English word. He handed Straha the envelope, saying, “Keep this for me. Hide it. You will know when to open it.”

That Straha would; the envelope had TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH written on it, in both English and the language of the Race. The ex-shiplord kept one eye turret on it and turned the other toward Sam Yeager. “And what do I do with this if I should have to open it?”

“When you see what is inside, you will know,” Yeager said. “I trust you not to open it while I am still among those present.” That was another English idiom. “If I ever ask on the telephone to have it back, do not give it to me unless I say ‘it would help if you did.’ Unless I use that exact phrase, I am asking under duress. Then tell me it was accidentally destroyed, or lost, or something of the sort.”

“As you say, so shall it be. By the spirits of Emperors past, I swear it.” Straha cast down his eyes. Sam Yeager’s head bobbed up and down in the Tosevite gesture of agreement. Straha found another question: “What if I were to open it before anything happened to you?”