Aftershocks

20

Car keys clinked as Sam Yeager fished them out of his pocket. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he called to Barbara and Jonathan. “I’m going to see how the alterations for my tux look.”

“You’ll be dashing,” his wife said. Sam snorted. That wasn’t a word he’d ever thought to apply to himself. Jonathan just snickered. His tuxedo already fit fine, so he didn’t have to worry about return trips to the tailor.

Out on the street, cars slid past, their lights on. It was just a little past five-thirty, but night came early in December, even in Los Angeles. Yeager unlocked the door to his own Buick in the driveway, got inside, and fastened his seat belt. As he started the engine, he shook his head in bemusement. Back before the Lizards came, nobody’d bothered putting seat belts in cars. Nowadays, everyone took them for granted: the Race’s attitude toward minimizing risk had rubbed off on people.

He backed out of the driveway and drove south down Budlong toward Redondo Beach Boulevard, on which the formalwear place stood. Maybe he really would look dashing by the time the Japanese-American tailors were done with him. Jonathan did, sure enough. But Jonathan, of course, was a young man, and it would be his wedding day. Sam knew he needed more help to look sharp than his son did.

He’d gone only a couple of blocks-he hadn’t even got to Rosecrans yet-when he spied motion in the rearview mirror. He needed a heartbeat to realize it wasn’t motion behind the car. It was motion inside the car: somebody who’d been hiding, lying down on the back seat or maybe between the front and back seats, coming up and showing himself.

That heartbeat’s hesitation was at least half a heartbeat too long. By the time Sam took one hand off the wheel and started to go for his.45, he felt something hard and cold and metallic pressed to the back of his head. “Don’t even think about it, Yeager,” his uninvited guest told him. “Don’t even start to think about it. I know you’re heeled. Keep both hands where I can see ’em and pull on over to the side of the road if you want to keep breathing even a little longer.”

Numbly, Sam obeyed. He’d known this day might come. He’d known it ever since he gave Straha the information he’d uncovered. He’d known it before then, as a matter of fact. But he’d been extra careful since that day. This once, he hadn’t been careful enough. One mistake, that’s all you get.

“Attaboy,” his passenger said when he parked the car by the curb. “Now-tell me where it’s at, so I can pull your teeth. Don’t get cute with me, either. I’d sooner ice you someplace where it’s quieter than this, but I’ll do it right here if I’ve got to.”

“Right hip,” Yeager said dully. Smooth and deft, the man in the back seat half stood, reached forward, slid his hand under the safety belt, and plucked out the pistol. I was stupid twice, Sam thought. I couldn’t have got it very fast there myself. Right now, though, that didn’t look as if it would matter.

“Okay,” said the man with the pistol-with two pistols now. “Get moving. Go down to Redondo Beach and turn right.”

I was going to do that anyhow, Yeager thought as he pulled back into traffic. In an idiot sort of way, it was funny. Or maybe his brain was just spinning round and round without going anywhere, like a hamster’s exercise wheel.

The light at the corner of Budlong and Rosecrans turned red. Sam hit the brake. As he did, one small light went on in his head. “You’re Straha’s driver!” he blurted. Gordon, that was the fellow’s name.

“Not any more, I’m not,” Gordon answered. “That’s your fault, and you’re going to pay for it. President Warren’s dead. That’s your fault.” The light turned green. Yeager drove south, not knowing what else to do. Straha’s driver-no, his ex-driver now-continued, “Indianapolis went up in smoke. That’s your fault. And a hell of a lot of good men lost their posts. That’s your fault, too. If I could kill you four or five times, I would, but once’ll have to do.”

“What about all those Lizards?” Sam asked. The light at Compton Boulevard was green. He wished it were red. That would have given him a few extra seconds. “They never had a chance.”

“Fuck ’em.” Gordon’s voice was flat and cold. “And fuck you, buddy.”

“Thanks a lot,” Yeager said as he stopped for the red light at Redondo Beach Boulevard. “Fuck you, too, and the horse you rode in on.”

Straha’s driver laughed. “Yeah, you can cuss me. You’ll be just as dead either which way. Now go on down to Western. Turn left there and keep on driving till I tell you to stop.”

Sam waited till the way was clear, then turned onto Redondo Beach. He had a pretty good idea where Gordon would have him go. Western ran all the way down to the Palos Verdes peninsula, where there were plenty of wide open spaces without any houses close by. Kids drove down to P.V. to find privacy to park; he wouldn’t have been surprised if Jonathan and Karen had done that a time or two, or maybe more than a time or two. Palos Verdes offered privacy for murder, too.

Coming up was Normandie. The next big street after it was Western. Yeager swung into the left lane as he drove west on Redondo Beach. He was nearing the light at Redondo Beach and Normandie when it went from green to yellow to red. Cars on Normandie started going through the intersection.

Sam slowed as if he were going to stop at the light, then stamped on the gas for all he was worth. Gordon only had time for the beginning of a startled squawk before the Buick broadsided a Chevy station wagon.

It had been a good many years since Sam’s last traffic accident. He’d never caused-he’d never imagined causing-one on purpose. As they always did in pileups, things happened very fast and seemed to happen very slowly. Collision. Noise-incredible racket of smashing glass and crumpling metal. Yeager jerked forward. His seat belt caught him before he could spear himself on the steering wheel or go headfirst through the windshield.

Gordon wasn’t wearing a seat belt. Sam had counted on that. Straha’s driver hadn’t been sitting directly behind him. He’d been more in the middle of the back seat. At the impact, he too was hurled forward, half over the top of the front seat. The pistol flew out of his hand. Sam had counted on that, too-he’d hoped for it, anyway. With the reflexes that had let him play a pretty fair left field once upon a time, he snatched it up from the floorboard and hit Gordon in the head with it, as hard as he could. Then he got back his own.45 from Gordon’s belt.

All that happened as quickly as he could do it. He hadn’t had time to think about it. He couldn’t remember thinking anything since deciding to run the light at Normandie, any more than he’d done any thinking while chasing down a long fly ball in the alley in left-center. Thinking was for afterwards.

Afterwards, however much against the odds, seemed to have arrived. Time returned to its normal flow. Sam suddenly noticed blaring horns and squealing brakes as other drivers somehow missed adding to the accident.

The first thing that ran through his mind was, It wasn’t an accident. I meant to do it. The next thought made a lot more sense: I’d better get the hell out of here before the car catches on fire.

When he tried to open the door, it wouldn’t. He twisted in his seat and kicked at it. At the same time, somebody outside yanked at it for all he was worth. It did open then, with a scream of tortured metal.

“You son of a bitch!” roared the man outside, a stocky, swarthy fellow whose ancestors had come from Mexico if he hadn’t. “You stupid motherfucking son of a bitch! You trying to get me killed? You trying to get yourself killed?”

He must have been driving the other car. Sam was proud he’d managed such a brilliant deduction. “No, I was trying to keep from getting killed,” he answered-literal truth. He realized he sounded mushy. There on top of the dashboard, quite undamaged, sat his upper plate. He reached out with his left hand and stuffed it into his mouth.

“Man, I oughta beat the living shit outta you, and-” The man standing in the intersection suddenly noticed the pistol in Yeager’s right hand. His eyes went enormously wide. He stopped roaring and started backing away.

That let Sam get out of the car. One look at the stove-in front end told him he’d never drive the Buick again. He shrugged. He’d have the chance to drive some other car one day. Almost as an afterthought, he dragged Gordon out of the wreckage. Gordon’s head thumped on the asphalt, but Sam wasn’t about to lose any sleep over that.

A couple of other cars had stopped. Their drivers jumped out to lend a hand. But nobody seemed eager to come very close to Yeager, not with one pistol in his hand and another on his belt. “Don’t do nothin’ crazy, mister,” a tall, skinny blond guy said.

“I don’t intend to,” Yeager said-he’d already been crazy enough to last a lifetime, and to prolong one. “I’m just waiting for the cops to get here.”

He didn’t have to wait long. Siren howling, red lights flashing, a squad car raced up Normandie and stopped in the intersection, which was already a lot more crowded than it needed to be. Two of Gardena’s finest got out and looked things over. “Okay,” said one of them, a burly fellow with black hair and very blue eyes. “What the hell happened here?”

As far as Sam could see, that was pretty obvious. He sighed with relief for a different reason, though-he’d met the policeman before. “Hello, Clyde,” he said. “How are you tonight?”

The Mexican man who’d been driving the station wagon let out a wail of anguish. His car was wrecked-and it was totaled, bent into an L-and the guy who’d rammed him knew the cop by his first name?

Clyde needed a couple of seconds to pull Sam out of his mental card file, but he did. “Lieutenant Colonel Yeager!” he exclaimed. “What the hell happened here?” This time, he asked it in an altogether different tone of voice.

Briefly, as if making an oral report, Yeager told him what had happened. “Yeah, and that’s all a bunch of bullshit, too,” Gordon said from the street. Sam jumped. He hadn’t noticed Straha’s driver coming to. Gordon went on, “This guy kidnapped me, dragged me off the street. He was babbling about ransom money.”

Sam handed Clyde both pistols. “You’ll probably find both our prints on both of them. You want to know where I was going when I left home, call my wife and son. You can check with the formalwear place, too-it’s right down the street here.”

“Whaddaya think?” the other cop asked Clyde.

“Yeager here, he’s had some nasty stuff happen to him that nobody ever got a handle on-nobody this side of the FBI, anyhow,” Clyde said slowly. “You ask me, this looks like more of the same.” He bent down and put handcuffs on Gordon. “You’re under arrest. Suspicion of kidnapping.” Then he pointed at Sam. “But you’re coming down to the station, too, till we find out whose story checks out better.”

“What about me?” cried the man who’d been driving the station wagon.

Nobody paid any attention to him. “Sure, I’ll come,” Sam said. “But please do call my wife, will you, and let her know I’m okay.”

“We’ll take care of it,” the second cop said. He went back to the police car and spoke into the radio. Then he walked back toward the accident. “Tow truck’s on the way. Another car, too, so we can get both these guys to the station.”

“Okay, good,” Clyde answered. “Like I said, we’ll sort it out there.” He hauled Gordon to his feet.

“I want my lawyer,” Gordon said sullenly.

Whoever his lawyer was, he’d be good. Sam was sure of that. But, as he walked toward the squad car, he didn’t worry about it. He didn’t worry about anything. By the odds, he should have been dead, and he was still breathing. Measured against that, nothing else mattered.

Jonathan Yeager fiddled with his tie in front of the mirror in the church’s waiting room. He’d practiced tying a bow tie under a wing collar ever since he’d got the tux, but he still wasn’t real good at it. One side of the bow definitely looked bigger than the other. “I don’t think I’ll ever get it right, Dad,” he said in something close to despair.

His father clapped him on the shoulder and advised, “Don’t worry about it. Nobody’s going to care much, as long as you’re there and Karen’s there and the minister’s there. And you probably won’t have to worry about it again till you’re marrying off your own kid-and nobody’ll pay much attention to you then, believe me.”

“Okay.” Jonathan was willing-more than willing, eager-to let himself be convinced. He glanced at his father. Sam Yeager’s tie was straight. The bulge under the left shoulder of his tuxedo jacket hardly showed at all. Jonathan shook his head. “I wonder when the last wedding was where the father of the groom carried a pistol.”

“Don’t know,” his father said. “Usually it’s the father of the bride, and he’s carrying a shotgun.”

“Dad!” Jonathan said reproachfully. His father grinned, altogether unrepentant. Jonathan shook his head. He and Karen had been careful every single time-no need for Mr. Culpepper to go out and buy shotgun shells. Even so, he changed the subject: “Will you and Mom be okay watching Mickey and Donald while Karen and I are off on our honeymoon?”

“We’ll manage,” his dad replied. “If we really start going crazy, we can call one of the Army’s other Lizard-psych boys, like the fellow who’s babysitting them today. But I don’t expect we’ll need to. They’re getting big enough to be easier than they were even a few months ago.”

Somebody knocked on the door. “You fellows decent in there?” Jonathan’s mother asked.

“No,” his father answered. “Come on in anyway.”

The door opened. Jonathan’s mother came in. “Karen looks lovely,” she said. “She’s wearing the dress her mother got married in, you know. I think that’s so romantic.”

Jonathan hadn’t seen Karen yet. He wouldn’t, not till she came down the aisle. Not everybody followed that old custom these days, but her folks approved of it. Since they were footing the bill, he could hardly argue with them. His father asked, “Everything okay out front, hon?”

“Everything looks fine,” his mother said. “And nobody’s come in who hasn’t been vouched for by somebody. No strangers at the feast.”

“There’d better not be.” Just for a moment, his father’s right hand started to slide toward the shoulder holster. Then he checked the motion. He went on, “The judge refused to let Gordon out on bail yesterday. He was the biggest worry.”

“I hope he stays there till he rots,” Jonathan’s mother said.

“Yeah.” That was Jonathan. He added an emphatic cough. His father had told him some of what went on the night the Buick met its end. He had the feeling his dad hadn’t told him everything, not by a long shot.

“Well, now that you mention it, so do I,” Sam Yeager said.

Another knock on the door. The minister said, “About time to get ready, there.”

“We are, Reverend Fleischer,” Jonathan said. His heart thumped. He was ready for the ceremony, sure enough. Was he ready to be married? He wasn’t so sure about that. He wondered if anybody was ready to be married before the fact. His mother and father had made it work, and so had Karen’s parents. If they could manage it, he supposed Karen and he could, too. He turned to his mother and father. “Shall we do it?”

His father started to say something. His mother gave his dad a look, and his dad very visibly swallowed whatever it had been. Instead, he said, “We’d better round up your best man, too. He ducked out for a cigarette, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Jonathan nodded. “Greg goes through a pack a day, easy.”

“With everything they’re finding out these days about what cigarettes do to you, I think young people are foolish to start.” His mother’s grin was wry. “That doesn’t mean I don’t use them myself, of course.”

“I was going to point that out,” Jonathan’s father said. “I’ve got a pack with me, too.”

The minister opened the door. Jonathan’s best man stood behind him. Greg Ruzicka and he had known each other since the fourth grade. Greg’s head was also shaved; like so many of his generation, he found the Race at least as interesting as humanity. He gave Jonathan a thumbs-up. Jonathan grinned.

“If you’ll just come along with me now, and take your places,” Reverend Fleischer said. “Then I’ll give the organist a nod, and we shall commence.”

When Jonathan got to the door that led to the aisle down which he’d walk, he looked at the backs of the guests’ heads. His friends, his parents’ friends-Ullhass and Ristin were there; Shiplord Straha, for obvious reasons, wasn’t-and a few relatives, and those of Karen and her folks. He gulped. It was real. It was about to happen.

Karen and her mother came out of the other waiting room. She waved to him and smiled through her veil. He took a deep breath and smiled back. Reverend Fleischer bustled up to the altar and gave the organist the signal. The first couple of notes of the Wedding March rang out before Jonathan realized they had something to do with him. His best man hissed. He jumped, then started walking.

Afterwards, he remembered only bits and pieces of the ceremony. He remembered his own parents coming up the aisle after him, and Karen on her father’s arm, and her maid of honor-she’d known Vicki Yamagata even longer than he’d known Greg. After that, it was all a blur till he heard Reverend Fleischer saying, “Do you, Jonathan, take this woman to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”

“I do,” he said, loud enough for the minister and Karen to hear him, but probably not for anybody else.

It seemed to satisfy Reverend Fleischer. He turned to the bride. “Do you, Karen, take this man to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”

“I do,” she answered, a little louder than Jonathan had.

Beaming, the minister said, “Then by the authority vested in me by the church and by the state of California, I now pronounce you man and wife.” He nodded to Jonathan. “You may kiss the bride.”

That, Jonathan knew how to do. He swept the veil aside, took Karen in his arms, and delivered a kiss about a quarter as enthusiastic as he really wanted to give her. That still made it pretty lively for a kiss in church. When he let her go, he saw almost all the men and what was to him a surprising number of women looking as if they knew exactly what he had in mind.

“We’re really married,” he said: not exactly brilliant repartee from a new bridegroom.

“How about that?” Karen answered. That was commonplace enough to make him feel a bit better.

They went up the aisle this time, and over to the hall next to the church for the reception after the wedding. Jonathan drank champagne, fed wedding cake to Karen and got fed by her, and shook hands with everybody he didn’t know and most of the people he did.

“Congratulations,” Ristin told him in hissing English.

“I thank you, superior sir,” Jonathan answered in the language of the Race.

As his red-white-and-blue body paint showed, Ristin was an ex-POW who’d made himself thoroughly at home in the USA. He kept right on speaking English: “This is an enjoyable celebration. I almost begin to understand why those two of my kind who fled to this country would desire it.”

“Weddings are supposed to be fun,” Jonathan agreed, now sticking to English himself. “From everything I’ve heard, though, it’s the settling-down part later on that makes a marriage work.”

Ristin shrugged. “I would not know. Most of us have no interest in such unions. But I know your kind does, and I wish you every success.”

“Thanks,” Jonathan said again.

People pelted Karen and him with rice when they went out to his elderly Ford. He hoped it would start. It did. He was glad to be out of the tux and in ordinary clothes again. Karen ran a comb through her hair, getting the rice out of it. “How about that?” she said again.

“Yeah. How about that, Mrs. Yeager?” Jonathan said. “You’re going to have to get used to signing your name a new way.”

Karen looked startled. “You’re right. I will. And I’ll have to get used to being at the end of the alphabet, too, instead of near the front. Culpepper was good for that.”

The hotel they’d picked for their wedding night was close to the airport. When they got up to their room, he picked her up and carried her over the threshold. Inside, they discovered a bottle of champagne waiting in a bucket of ice. Karen read the little card tied to the bottle. “It’s from your folks,” she said, and sighed. “My mom and dad wouldn’t have thought of anything like that.”

“Your parents are nice people,” Jonathan said loyally.

But he didn’t want to think about his new in-laws-or his own parents, for that matter. That wasn’t what a wedding night was for. He wasn’t very interested in more champagne at the moment, either. It might make him sleepy. He didn’t want to be sleepy, not tonight.

Karen might have been reading his mind. “We don’t have to hurry,” she said, glancing toward the bed that dominated the hotel room. “We don’t have to worry about getting caught, either. I like that.” Her eye went to the ring with the very little diamond Jonathan had set on her finger. “I like this, too.”

“Good.” Jonathan had a slim gold band on his own finger. He wasn’t used to wearing rings; it felt funny. “That’s the idea.” He walked over to her. Their arms went around each other. Who kissed whom was a matter of opinion. This time, in privacy, they didn’t have to hold back any enthusiasm.

Not very much later, they lay side by side on the bed. Jonathan’s hands wandered. So did Karen’s. She said, “This is a lot better than parking in a drive-in, you know?”

“Yeah!” Jonathan couldn’t take his eyes off his bride. They’d never had the chance to be fully naked together before. “You’re beautiful. I already knew that-but even more so.”

She pulled him to her. “You say the sweetest things.” After they’d kissed for quite a while, Karen pulled back perhaps half an inch and said, “I’ll bet you tell that to all the girls.” She poked him in the ribs.

He squeaked-she’d found a ticklish spot. And, just for half a second, the corny old joke put him off his stride. He had told Kassquit something pretty much like that, or as close to it as he could come in the language of the Race, which wasn’t really made for such sentiments. He wondered how Kassquit was doing, and hoped she was doing well.

But then his mouth found its way to the tip of Karen’s breast again. She sighed and pressed his head against her. He stopped thinking about Kassquit. He stopped thinking about everything. A moment later, the marriage became official in a way that had nothing to do with either the church or the state of California, but that was as old as mankind nonetheless.

“Oh, Jonathan,” Karen said softly.

“I love you,” he answered.

They made love a couple of times, fell asleep in each other’s arms, and woke up to make love again. Over the course of the night, the champagne did disappear. It wasn’t enough to make them drunk; it was enough to make them happy, not that they weren’t pretty happy already.

The wakeup call at eight the next morning interrupted something that wasn’t sleep. Afterwards, Jonathan said, “I don’t know why we’re flying up to San Francisco for our honeymoon.”

“It’ll be fun,” Karen said. “We’ll see all sorts of things we haven’t seen before.”

“If we ever get out of the hotel room, we will,” he said. “I don’t know about that.”

“Braggart.” She wrinkled her nose at him. They both laughed. Jonathan squeezed her. They went downstairs for breakfast, and then back up to the room to find something to do in the couple of hours before the plane took off. To Jonathan’s considerable pride, they did. On the basis of a bit more than half a day, he liked being married just fine.

Kassquit stooped slightly to look in the mirror in her cubicle. That she had to stoop reminded her she wasn’t biologically part of the Race: the mirror was at the perfect height for a male or female from Home. She’d had to start stooping even before she reached her full growth. Either she’d tried not to think about it or she’d let it mortify her, as did every difference between herself as she was and the female of the Race she wished she were.

Now she knew those differences were even larger than she’d thought before she met wild Big Uglies. That knowledge could mortify her, too. “I am a citizen of the Empire,” she said. “I am a Tosevite, but I am also a citizen of the Empire.”

It was a truth. Sometimes-perhaps, even, more often than not-it helped calm her. But the converse held, too. She was a citizen of the Empire, but she was also a Tosevite. And, at the moment, she was engaged in a task which proved exactly that.

Her hair-the hair on her scalp, that is, not the hair that sprouted elsewhere on her body-had got long enough to need combing. The black plastic comb she held had come up from the surface of Tosev 3 at her request. The Race didn’t make anything like it: what point, with scales instead of hair? She’d needed to send an electronic message to Sam Yeager to find out how the Big Uglies kept hair in any kind of order. “Comb,” she said as she used it. The word was English. The Race did not have the thing, and so did not have a term for it.

After she finished using the comb, she studied the result. Her hair was neater, no doubt about it. She suspected any Big Ugly who saw her would have approved. She also suspected neither males nor females of the Race would care one way or the other. Members of the Race disapproved of her hair on general principles. Not long ago, that disapproval would have crushed her. Now, every once in a while, she enjoyed annoying males and females. If that wasn’t her Tosevite blood coming out, she had no idea what it was.

The intercom panel by the door hissed for her attention. “Who is it?” she asked.

“I: Ttomalss,” came the reply.

Kassquit stuck on an artificial fingerclaw for a moment, so she could prod the switch to let him in. “I greet you, superior sir,” she said, bending into the posture of respect.

“And I greet you,” Ttomalss replied. “I hope you are well?”

She made the affirmative gesture. “Yes. I thank you. And yourself?” After Ttomalss used the same gesture, Kassquit asked him, “And what can I do for you today, superior sir?”

“You mentioned to me the ambiguities involved in recording every action of an individual who is a citizen of the Empire with the same privileges as those enjoyed by other citizens of the Empire,” Ttomalss said.

“I certainly did mention that to you, yes,” Kassquit said. “And I do not believe the issue is in the least ambiguous.”

“You will, I hope, understand that I did not and do not altogether agree with you,” Ttomalss said. “But a review committee of higher-ranking individuals has come to a different conclusion. I am now able to tell you that the routine recording of your actions has ceased and will not resume.”

“That is… very good news, superior sir.” Kassquit added an emphatic cough. She knew she sounded astonished. She was astonished. That the Race would put her wishes ahead of its own research was something to be astonished about. Then she checked her swelling delight. “Wait.”

“What is it?” Ttomalss asked.

“You say you are able to tell me the routine recording of my actions has stopped,” Kassquit answered. “You do not say that this is a truth. Is it a truth, superior sir?”

She watched him narrowly. She was not a female of the Race, to have instinctual cues about what his body language meant, but she’d been watching him all her life. When he flinched now, the motion was tiny, but she saw it. And when he said, “What do you mean?” she caught the startled alarm in his voice.

“I mean that you were lying to me,” she said sadly. “I mean that you thought I would not pay close enough attention to your words. When I was a hatchling, I would not have. But I am an adult now. When you lie to me, I have some chance of realizing it.”

“You do not understand.” But Ttomalss didn’t deny what she’d said.

She wished he would have denied it. “I understand you have lied to me. I understand I cannot trust you any more. Do you understand-do you have any idea-how much pain that causes me? I am sorry, superior sir, but I do not think I want to see you again for some time to come. Please go.”

“Kassquit, I-” Ttomalss began.

“Get out!” Kassquit shrieked at the top of her lung-no, lungs; being a Tosevite, she had two. They seemed to make her voice doubly loud, doubly shrill, inside the little cubicle. Ttomalss cowered in alarm as her cry echoed and reechoed from the metal walls. Without a word, he fled.

As the door hissed shut behind him, Kassquit fought the urge to run after him and do him an injury. Assuming she actually could, what would it do except land her in trouble? It would make me feel better, she thought. But, in the end, that proved not quite reason enough, and she let her mentor escape.

She made the negative gesture. “No. I let him escape physically,” she said, much more quietly than she’d ordered him to go. “But he will not get away with it, by the spirits of Emperors past.”

After casting down her eyes as any other citizen of the Empire would have, she made a telephone call. A female of the Race said, “Office of Fleetlord Reffet, fleetlord of the colonization fleet. How may… I help… you?” Her voice faltered as she saw herself facing a Tosevite rather than the member of the Race she’d expected.

“I am Junior Researcher Kassquit,” Kassquit said. “I should like to speak to the Exalted Fleetlord, if that is possible.”

“I doubt very much that it will be,” the female replied.

Such a lack of acceptance didn’t even anger Kassquit any more; she’d encountered it too often. She said, “Please mention my name to the fleetlord. You may possibly be surprised.”

To another member of the Race, the females surely would have said, It shall be done. Here, she plainly debated refusing Kassquit altogether. At last, with a shrug, she replied, “Oh, very well.” Her image disappeared as she set herself to finding out whether Fleetlord Reffet would indeed condescend to speak to this Big Ugly who bore the title and name of a female of the Race.

If Reffet decided he didn’t care to speak with Kassquit, she probably wouldn’t see the female in his office again; the connection would just be broken. But Kassquit knew she’d done the Race-and Reffet-a considerable service in identifying the male who called himself Regeya on the electronic network as Sam Yeager, wild Big Ugly. She hoped the fleetlord would remember, too.

And, for a moment, she wished she could forget. Had she not unmasked Sam Yeager, she would never have become intimate with Jonathan Yeager. She would have come closer-much closer-to remaining a good counterfeit female of the Race. But that hadn’t been how things worked out. Now Jonathan Yeager was permanently mated to another wild Big Ugly. And now Kassquit knew she was doomed always to stay betwixt and between. She could never make herself into a proper member of the Race, but she could never fully be a Tosevite, either.

The female reappeared. “The fleetlord will speak to you,” she said in startled tones. She vanished again. Reffet’s image replaced hers.

Kassquit folded into the posture of respect. “I greet you, Exalted Fleetlord,” she said. “Is it not a truth that I have been adjudged a full citizen of the Race?”

“Let me examine the facts before I answer, Junior Researcher,” Reffet said. One of his eye turrets swung away from her, presumably to look at another monitor. No matter how she tried to make them behave so, her eyes refused. After a little while, Reffet swung both eye turrets back toward her. “Yes, that does appear to be a truth.”

“Do I have all the privileges of any other citizen of the Empire, then?” she persisted.

“I would say that would follow from the other.” Reffet added the affirmative gesture.

“In that case, Exalted Fleetlord…” Kassquit took a deep breath. “In that case, I request that you formally reprimand my mentor, Senior Researcher Ttomalss, for falsely assuring me that he had stopped recording my every activity when in fact he has not. He admitted as much when I caught him in the lie. And I daresay you can see and hear him admit as much on the recording he has denied making. I also request that you order him to cease such recordings in the future.”

“Junior Researcher, are you sure you wish to pursue this formally?” Reffet asked.

“Exalted Fleetlord, I am,” Kassquit replied. “I see no other way to gain at least some of the privacy a citizen of the Race is entitled to. Being who I am, being what I am, I know I can never hope to lead a normal life. But a citizen of the Empire should not have to lead a life in which she is on constant display.”

“Truth,” the fleetlord of the colonization fleet said. He let out a soft hiss as he pondered. At last, he made the affirmative gesture to show he had decided. “I shall order Ttomalss to cease this recording. But I shall not reprimand him. As you note, your situation is not and cannot be normal.”

“I thank you,” Kassquit said. “But perhaps you misunderstood. I do not want him reprimanded for the recording. I want him reprimanded for the lie.”

“Think carefully on this, Junior Researcher,” Reffet said. “I understand your reasons, I believe. But do you truly wish to alienate your mentor? For one in your… unusual position, having a prominent friend could prove valuable, and not having one could prove the reverse.” He used an emphatic cough.

Kassquit started to answer with something sharp, but checked herself while she thought. Reluctantly, she decided the fleetlord’s advice was good. “I thank you,” she said. “Let it be as you suggested. But could you please informally let Ttomalss know you are displeased with him because of the lie?”

Reffet’s mouth fell open in a laugh. “Perhaps you do not need a prominent friend after all. You are a strong advocate for yourself. I shall do that. Farewell.”

Well enough pleased with herself, Kassquit began checking the areas of the electronic network in which she was interested. Before long, Ttomalss telephoned her. Without preamble, he said, “I suppose you are responsible for the tongue-whipping I just got from Fleetlord Reffet.”

“Yes, superior sir, I am,” Kassquit answered.

“I am certain you think I deserve it, too,” Ttomalss said. “Things are now arranged as you desired. You are no longer being routinely recorded, and that is a truth.” He used an emphatic cough.

“Good,” Kassquit said, and used one of her own. She and Ttomalss both broke the connection at the same time. She hoped she wouldn’t have to go on without his help. If she did, though, she expected she would manage. She was fundamentally alone. Being who and what she was, how could she be anything else? “I just have to live with it,” she murmured, and set about to do exactly that.

Vyacheslav Molotov was walking past his secretary’s desk on the way to his own office when his legendary impassivity cracked. Stopping in his tracks, he pointed at the object that had startled him and said, “Bozhemoi, Pyotr Maksimovich, what on earth is that? ”

“Comrade General Secretary, it is called a Furry,” his secretary replied. “My cousin is the protocol officer in our embassy to the United States, and he sent it to me. They are, apparently, all the rage there-by what he said, he had to fight a mob of housewives at a department store to get his hands on any of them.”

“I had forgotten you were related to Mikhail Sergeyevich,” Molotov said. He peered over the tops of his spectacles at the so-called Furry. “I fail to see the appeal. There must be many more attractive stuffed animals.”

“But this is not an ordinary stuffed animal, Comrade General Secretary,” his secretary said. “Here, let me show you.” He aimed a handheld control at the toy’s nose. The Furry opened its eyes and swung them over the room, for all the world as if it really were waking up and looked around. It waved a hand and spoke in English.

“Bozhemoi! ” Molotov said again. “I see what you mean. It is almost as if the devil’s grandmother lives inside the little thing.” When he spoke, the Furry’s eyes turned toward him. It said something else in English. For all he knew, it was answering him. “Does it hear me?” he asked.

“Literally, no,” his secretary said. “In effect, yes. It has all manners of sensors and circuits stolen from the Lizards’ technology, which make it much more versatile than toys commonly are.”

“Versatile,” Molotov echoed, watching the Furry. It had been looking at the secretary, but its alarmingly lifelike eyes returned to him when he spoke. “Amazing,” he murmured. “The Americans are foolish to use so much of this valuable technology in something to amuse children. They are, in some ways, very much like children themselves.”

“My cousin writes that a Canadian actually invented the Furries, though they’re being made in the United States,” his secretary said.

“Canadians. Americans.” Molotov shrugged. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other. There are no big differences between them, the way there are between us Russians and the Ukrainians, for instance.” He warily eyed the Furry. Sure enough, it was eyeing him, too. “Turn it off, Pyotr Maksimovich.”

“Certainly, Comrade General Secretary.” His secretary wasn’t about to tell him no. When he used the control again, the Furry yawned, waved good-bye, said one last thing in English (“That means, ‘Good night,’ ” Molotov’s secretary said), and closed its eyes. It truly might have been falling asleep.

“I hope your children enjoy it,” Molotov said. He had to repress the urge to sidle around his secretary’s desk as he finally went on into his office. It is only a toy, a machine, he told himself, nothing but plush and plastic and circuits programmed to perform one way or another. He was a thorough-going rationalist and materialist, so that should have been self-evident truth. And so it was-when he forced himself to look at it rationally. When he didn’t… When he didn’t, the devil’s grandmother might have animated the Furry.

Sitting down at his desk, going through paperwork-all that seemed a great relief. He’d done it every day for years, for decades. Getting up for some tea and a couple of little sweet cakes dusted with powdered sugar was routine, too. The more he stuck to routine, the less he had to think about the Furry and what it implied. So much technology, casually lavished on a toy! The USSR had stolen the same technology from the Race, and could have matched the Furry-but any economic planner who dared suggest such a thing would have gone to the gulag the next minute.

Molotov wondered how many Furries would be imported into the Soviet Union, and what sort of demand for such fripperies they would create among the majority who would not prove able to get their hands on them. He shrugged. He cared very little whether or not people clamored for consumer goods. What sensible planner would? The Red Army got what it needed. The Party got what it needed. If anything happened to be left over after that, the people got it. Unlike the capitalist Americans, we have our priorities straight, Molotov thought smugly.

After a while, he glanced at the clock. It was after ten. Zhukov and Gromyko should have been here on the hour. Molotov tapped one finger on the desk. Most Russians were hopelessly unpunctual, but those two had learned to come and go by the clock, not by their own inclination. Where were they, then?

Almost as soon as the question formed in his mind, he got the answer. Squeaky English came from the anteroom. Molotov’s secretary’s Furry had captured the head of the Red Army and the foreign commissar no less than it had ensnared Molotov himself. He went out to the anteroom and said, “Good morning, Comrades. Have you begun your second childhoods, to play with toys instead of conducting the business of the Soviet Union?”

Gromyko said, “It is a clever gadget, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. It is also a funny gadget, if you speak English.”

Zhukov nodded. Delight glowed on his broad peasant features. Plainly, he would sooner have gone on fooling around with the Furry than dealing with state business. He said, “I’m going to get some of these… for my grandchildren, of course.”

“Of course,” Molotov said dryly.

With obvious regret, the diplomat and the soldier allowed themselves to be led away from the American toy. Even as Zhukov sat down in front of Molotov’s desk, he said, “That’s a damn fine toy, no two ways about it.”

“There are always two ways about everything, Georgi Konstantinovich,” Gromyko said. “The second way here is that the Americans waste so much energy and technological expertise on this piece of frivolity when they could be using them to some advantage on their own defense.”

“All right, something to that,” Zhukov allowed. “But a little fun’s not against the law every now and then.” He still sometimes thought like a peasant, all right.

Molotov said, “Can we forget the toys for the time being and discuss our plan of action for China? That was, if you will recall, the reason we were to assemble here today. Had I known of the Furry in advance, I assure you I would have put it at the head of the agenda.”

His sarcasm seemed to get through where nothing else had. Instead of blathering on about the stuffed animal, Zhukov said, “Mao’s done better than we thought he could, hasn’t he?”

“Indeed,” Molotov said.

“Now the question is, has he done too well for his own good?” Gromyko said.

“Exactly so, Andrei Andreyevich-exactly so,” Molotov agreed. “If he keeps giving the Lizards as much trouble as he has lately, how soon will they start using explosive-metal bombs to suppress him?”

“Too many of those bombs used already, all over the world,” Gromyko said.

“If the Lizards do start using explosive-metal bombs, they may not get rid of the whole People’s Liberation Army, but they’re liable to wipe out the leadership cadres,” hukov said.

“You are right, Georgi Konstantinovich, and that is not desirable,” Molotov said. “We want the People’s Liberation Army to remain a thorn in the side of the Race for years-indeed, for generations-to come.” He turned to Gromyko. “Andrei Andreyevich, I want you to work closely with Japan and the United States. If all three powers express their displeasure at the use of explosive-metal weapons in China, that may well give the Lizards pause.”

“I shall do my best to arrange a joint declaration, Comrade General Secretary,” Gromyko replied. “Too many sovereignties have already used too many explosive-metal bombs, as I said a moment ago.”

“It bears repeating. We should also emphasize it with the Race,” Molotov said. “And I believe we should make it less urgently necessary for the Race to have to think about using explosive-metal bombs in China.” His gaze swung back to Zhukov. “Do you understand what I mean, Comrade Marshal? Do you agree?” He wished he could simply give Zhukov orders, but the head of the Red Army would have had an easier time giving him orders than the other way round.

Zhukov grunted now. “You want us to stop sending the People’s Liberation Army the German rockets that let them take out tanks and helicopters and airplanes.”

Molotov, for once, did not grudge a smile. “Exactly!”

“Mao will pitch a fit,” Zhukov predicted. “This isn’t the first time we’ve sold him down the river.”

“And it may not be the last, either,” Molotov replied with a shrug. “Is weakening the People’s Liberation Army not what seems best for the Soviet Union and for the world as a whole?”

He waited. If Zhukov said no, he would have to backtrack, and he hated the idea. But, after another grunt, Zhukov said, “Yes, I suppose so. The Chinese will still keep the Lizards in play. They just won’t be able to do such a good job of it. If the Lizards didn’t have explosive-metal bombs, I’d answer differently. Of course, if the Lizards didn’t have explosive-metal bombs and the technology that goes with them, they’d still be stuck on Home.”

“The world would be a different place,” Gromyko said musingly. “Better? Worse? Who can guess?”

“Who indeed?” Molotov said. He thought the Soviet Union would have survived the attack the Nazis were unleashing in 1942 when the Race arrived, he hoped the Soviet Union would have survived, but he was anything but certain. Would anyone have tried flying into space by these early days of 1966 if the Lizards hadn’t shown it could be done? He doubted that.

“No point to such airy-fairy questions,” Zhukov said. “We can only deal with what is, not with what might have been.”

Gromyko’s heavy eyebrows came down and together in a frown; he didn’t care to be casually dismissed like that. But his voice showed none of his annoyance as he asked, “If we make it harder for the Chinese to annoy the Lizards, shall we find some other way to make their lives interesting?”

“What have you got in mind?” Molotov asked.

“When we launched those missile warheads loaded with ginger at the Race’s Australian settlements, the results were highly disruptive-and highly entertaining,” the foreign commissar observed.

But this time Zhukov spoke before Molotov could: “Nyet. We got away with it once, but that is no guarantee we could do it twice. And the hot water we would land in if we got caught… Nyet.”

Reluctantly, Molotov nodded. “I agree with Georgi Konstantinovich. Smuggling ginger is one thing. Bombarding them with it is something else if we get caught: an act of war.” Gromyko sulked. He didn’t show it much-he never showed anything much-but he sulked. Molotov would much sooner have backed him than Zhukov. That would have enhanced his own power and diminished the marshal’s. But he would have no power at all if the USSR went the way of the Greater German Reich. Survival first, Molotov thought. Everything else afterwards, but survival first. He’d lived by that rule for three quarters of a century. He wondered how much further he could go.

Monique Dutourd turned to-turned on-her brother with even more annoyance than usual. “Isn’t there anything you can do?” she demanded.

“Me?” Pierre didn’t just shake his head. He laughed in her face. “If I tried to get Auerbach out of the Lizards’ prison, do you know what would happen? I’d end up back inside it myself, that’s what. No thanks, little sister.”

He was likely right, worse luck. Even so, Monique said, “It’s not fair. The American got me up to Tours, and now he’s locked away.”

“I notice you don’t say anything about his girlfriend,” Pierre remarked.

He was right about that, too. Monique hadn’t said a word about Penny Summers, although she’d also been arrested. Truth was, Monique had little use for Penny, and suspected the feeling was mutual. Trying not to sound defensive, she said, “He did more for me than she did.”

“And what would you like him to do for you?” Pierre asked insolently. Monique looked around for something to throw at him. Before her eye-and her hand-settled on anything, her brother went on, “Remember, I’m not the one who’s got clout with the Lizards any more. You are. Like I’ve said before, you’re the teacher’s pet. And that Ttomalss is sure as hell a Lizard with pull. He’d have a lot better chance of getting the Race to spring Auerbach than I would.”

“Do you really think I could?” Monique heard the astonishment in her own voice. She needed a moment to figure out why she was so astonished. But then she did: she’d never had much power to do things or change things. She’d been done to and changed instead. The idea that she could be an active verb rather than a passive one startled her.

Pierre shrugged. “Suppose he says no. That’s the worst that can happen, and how are you worse off if it does? At the very least, you’ll know you tried.”

“You’re right.” Monique knew she sounded surprised again.

“When’s Ttomalss going to call again?” her brother asked.

“Tomorrow, isn’t it?” Monique answered.

“Yeah, I think that’s right.” Pierre paused and lit a cigarette. “All right, tomorrow you tell him no Auerbach means no ancient Romans. Sound like you mean it and you’ve got a chance.”

“Peut-etre.” Monique started to laugh. “You’re going to be the one who sounds like I mean it. I don’t know the language.”

“We’ll see how it goes,” Pierre said. “If he tells you no flat out, then he does, that’s all.” He blew a smoke ring. Whether the American got out of prison didn’t matter a centime’s worth to him one way or the other.

Ttomalss did telephone the next day. “I greet you,” he said through Pierre. “We were discussing, as I recall, the ways in which the Romans used gradations in status between full subject and full citizen to integrate foreign groups into their empire. Do I understand correctly that a group’s degree of citizenship would depend on the degree to which it had assimilated itself to Roman customs and practices? That strikes me as a very rational approach to administration.”

He did indeed understand correctly. He wasn’t stupid, or anything close to it; he reminded Monique of that with every conversation they held. But he was alien, very alien. He reminded her of that with every conversation they held, too.

“Well,” Pierre said, not translating any more. “Do you try, or don’t you?”

“I do,” Monique replied. “Tell him there is a personal matter we need to discuss before we go on with the Roman history.”

“It shall be done,” her brother said, one of the scraps of the Lizards’ language she understood. He went on with a long sentence of hisses and pops and coughs that were Greek to her-or would have been, save that she knew Greek.

After Pierre finished, Ttomalss let out an amazingly humanlike sigh. “I might have known this would happen,” he said. “In fact, this has already happened, when you arranged to have your brother released from prison to translate for you. What do you want from me this time?”

“I want you to release an American named Rance Auerbach, who, I believe, has been unjustly imprisoned as a ginger dealer,” Monique answered. She said not a word about Penny Summers. If Pierre wanted to tease her more about that, he could. Her conscience didn’t trouble her too much. Auerbach was the one who’d helped her. Penny wasn’t, and hadn’t.

“It always comes down to ginger dealers,” Ttomalss observed. “This herb causes us more trouble than any drug does for people.” (As an aside, Pierre added, “He really said, ‘Big Uglies.’ ”) The Lizard went on, “Let me consult our records about this Auerbach. Then I will tell you what I think.”

Silence fell on the other end of the line. Into it, Pierre asked, “What was the name of the Lizard who got you this place in Tours?”

“Felless,” Monique said. “Senior Researcher Felless. Auerbach knew she tasted ginger, and he blackmailed her into helping me.”

“Senior Researcher? Same title as Ttomalss,” her brother observed. “I wonder if they know each other. I wonder if he likes her, which is even more to the point. Felless…” He scratched his cheek. “I think she was one of Business Administrator Keffesh’s pals. Keffesh is in jail, too, you know.”

“They do know each other. Felless recommended me to Ttomalss. Do you think we can use all that to push him?” Monique asked.

Her brother shrugged a very Gallic shrug. “Don’t know yet. Like I said, a lot of it’s going to depend on what he thinks of her.”

Drumming her fingers on the desktop in front of the telephone, Monique waited to see what Ttomalss would say. After a couple of minutes, the Lizard began to speak again: “I am sorry, but that does not appear possible. His crimes include some in the subregion known as South Africa in which members of the Race fired on one another in pursuit of ginger.”

That didn’t sound good. But Monique had expected him to refuse at first. After all, doing nothing was easier and more convenient than doing something he didn’t much care to do. She said, “If males of the Race were shooting at one another, there’s no evidence Auerbach was shooting at anybody, is there?” She hoped there wasn’t.

To her relief, Ttomalss said, “No. But he has admitted being there, admitted being part of the plot. He has implicated males of the Race.”

“If he’s given evidence that helped the Race, doesn’t he deserve leniency?” Monique asked.

“He has leniency, as far as imprisonment goes.” Ttomalss paused, then fired back a question of his own: “Why are you so interested in this Tosevite male, Monique Dutourd? Do you want to mate with him?”

Pierre translated that rather more bluntly. Monique gave him a dirty look. He laughed at her. But Ttomalss definitely was not a fool, for the thought had been in the back of her mind. While she wondered what to say, Pierre offered his advice: “If you mean yes, say yes. If you mean no, say yes anyway. They think we’re all sex-crazy all the time, anyway. It’ll help push him.”

“All right. Thanks. Translate this…” Monique thought, then said, “Yes. We’ve never had the chance yet, and I can hardly wait. We’ve just been friends up till now.”

After putting that into the Lizards’ language, her brother nodded vigorously. “Good. Real good. Friendship counts for a lot with them.”

“I’ve seen that from the questions he asks about the Romans,” Monique said.

Ttomalss sighed again. “In spite of your desire, however urgent it may be, I doubt I have the influence to do as you wish… Why are you two Tosevites laughing?”

Monique and Pierre looked at each other and started laughing again. “How do we explain he sounds like the worst bad film ever made?” Monique asked.

“We don’t,” Pierre said, which was also probably good advice.

“Back to the main argument, then,” Monique said. “Tell him Auerbach did me a large favor, and I want to pay him back.”

“What sort of favor was this?” Ttomalss asked. “I suspect it was no favor at all. I suspect you are inventing it to fool me.”

“I am not,” Monique said indignantly, though Pierre probably wouldn’t be able to translate the indignation. “If it weren’t for Rance Auerbach, I wouldn’t have my position here at the University of Tours.”

“Now I know you are lying,” Ttomalss said. “I happen to know for a fact that Senior Researcher Felless of the Race obtained that position for you. She was the one who suggested I talk to you about the history of the Romans.”

Monique nodded to herself. Now the question was, were Felless and Ttomalss friends or just professional colleagues? She said, “Senior Researcher Felless got me the position because Auerbach urged her to.”

“Urged her to, you say?” Ttomalss echoed. “Do you mean he threatened to publicize her ginger habit again?” (“ ‘Again’?” Pierre said. “So she’s got caught before, has she? Isn’t that interesting?”)

“Auerbach hasn’t said anything about it to the Race’s authorities since, not that I know of,” Monique told Ttomalss. “Not yet, anyhow.”

“Not yet?” Once more, Ttomalss repeated her words. Once more, he sighed. “You will next tell me that, if he stays imprisoned, he will accuse Felless of using ginger. The question you should ask yourself is, do I care?”

“No, superior sir,” Monique said. “That’s the question you should ask yourself, don’t you think?”

Sure enough, there was the rub of it. If Ttomalss didn’t care at all what happened to Felless, he’d be less likely to help get Rance Auerbach out of prison. Instead of directly replying right away, he said, “You want to help the Tosevite gain his freedom because he did you this favor. Do you remember that Senior Researcher Felless also did you the favor of obtaining this position for you? Is it just that you should threaten her after she gave you that assistance?”

“She wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been for Auerbach,” Monique said.

“Do remember something else as well,” Ttomalss added. “If you got your position thanks to the Race, you can also lose it thanks to the Race.”

“I know. Believe me, I know,” she said. “But I was working as a shopgirl before Rance Auerbach did me that favor. I can find work as a shopgirl again.”

“I daresay I could find another Roman historian, too,” Ttomalss warned.

“What do you think?” Monique asked Pierre.

“If he meant to tell you no, he’d have done it already,” her brother replied.

“I think you’re right. I hope you’re right,” Monique said. “Tell him this: I’m sure he’s right. If he wants to do that, he can. But if he wants to keep working with this Roman historian, he needs to give me some help here. He’s not paying me much money to work with him, and remind him of that, too.”

After Pierre translated, Ttomalss let out another sigh. “I can make no promises, but I will see what influence I can bring to bear,” he said at last. (“You won’t get any more than that out of him,” Pierre said.) “Can we now continue with our discussion of grades of Roman citizenship?”

“Yes, superior sir,” Monique answered, as meekly as if she were only a scholar of classical civilization, and not a blackmailer at all.

Glen Johnson had company as he rode his scooter through the scattered drifting rubble of the asteroid belt, though he was alone in the cabin. He couldn’t see his company with the naked eye, either. But his radar assured him he wasn’t alone in this stretch of space. One of the Lizards’ probes followed him on his rounds.

This wasn’t the first time a probe had shadowed him as he went hither and yon, either. He wondered if the machine had received instructions from back on Earth to keep an electronic eye on him, or if the computer controlling it had decided to follow him on its own. Mankind remained behind the Race when it came to computer-guided machinery. Just how far ahead the Lizards were wasn’t quite clear.

“Okay, pal,” Johnson said to the probe, not that it could hear him. “You want the grand tour, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

He remained convinced that, no matter how smart the probe was, he was smarter. It was faster and stronger and more accurate. But he was more deceitful. If the probe wanted to learn more about what all the Americans were up to out here in the vicinity of Ceres, he would cheerfully lead it down the primrose path.

His radar guided him toward one of the rocks on which a work crew had mounted a motor: a weapon, in other words, aimed at the Lizards back on Earth. He used his little maneuvering jets to go all around the asteroid, examining it in microscopic detail. The Lizards’ probe also went around the rock, though it stayed several miles farther out than he did.

After finishing his inspection, he radioed the Lewis and Clark: “Asteroid code Charlie-Blue-317. All installations appear to be operating according to design.”

That done, he took the scooter away from the asteroid and on toward another one of similar size about twenty miles ahead. He gave the second floating chunk of rock the same meticulous inspection he’d given the first one. As before, the Race’s probe followed him. As before, it also went all around the asteroid. There was only one difference: this asteroid didn’t boast a motor.

Even so, Johnson sent a radio message to the Lewis and Clark: “Asteroid code Charlie-Green-426. All installations appear to be operating according to design.”

Having said that, he went on to the next rock on his list. This time, the Lizards’ probe didn’t follow him quite so quickly. Instead, it kept prowling round and round the asteroid he’d code-named Charlie-Green-426. He knew exactly what it was doing. It was trying to figure out why he’d gone there and what installations he was talking about. He wondered how long the Lizards would take to figure out that he was yanking their tailstumps. The longer, the better.

By the time he was done inspecting the next asteroid-which also remained untouched by human hands-the probe had caught up with him. He sent off the usual kind of message: “Asteroid code Charlie-Green-557. All installations appear to be operating according to design.”

Then he had a new thought. Instead of heading off toward another drifting hunk of rock, he pointed the scooter at the Lizards’ probe and used the radar to steer toward it: it was so efficiently blackened, he couldn’t see it till he got very close. The scooter mounted machine guns. He didn’t know what sort of weaponry the probe mounted, and didn’t want to find out here.

Instead, he flew around the probe at about the same range as he’d flown around the past several asteroids. The probe maneuvered, too, making it more like a dance than anything else. When Johnson had finally finished, he fired up the radio again and said, “Asteroid code Edgar-Black-069. All installations appear to be operating according to design.”

What will the Lizards make of that? he wondered. If he were a Lizard monitoring the Big Uglies out in space, he wouldn’t care for the implication that his probe was one of their installations. He hoped his hypothetical Lizard wouldn’t like it, either.

After that bit of confusion, he went on to visit several more asteroids, some with motors mounted on them, others without, on a long, looping trajectory that took him back to the American spaceship from which he’d departed. He guided the scooter into the airlock, which closed behind him. When the inner door opened and he emerged from the scooter, the airlock operator said, “The commandant wants to see you right away.”

Fighting back a strong impulse to groan, Johnson said, “Oh, God, what now?”

“Beats me,” the operator said. “But that’s what he told me, and when he says something, he usually means it.”

“Isn’t that the sad and sorry truth?” Johnson answered. “Okay, Rudy, thanks.” He swung off to beard Brigadier General Healey in his den.

When he got to the commandant’s office, deep in the heart of the Lewis and Clark, Healey fixed him with a fishy stare and said, “Asteroid code Edgar-Black-069? We have no asteroid with that code designation.”

“Oh.” Johnson fought against another groan. The commandant was at least as literal-minded as any Lizard ever hatched. He explained his pas de deux with the Race’s probe. “I made up the code name. Let the Race go nuts trying to figure out my signals. The probe is black. That’s what made me think of it.”

Healey drummed his fingers on the desktop. “I see. Very well. Dismissed.”

“Sir?” Johnson said in surprise.

“Dismissed, I said.” Healey’s expression turned suspicious, which wasn’t a very sharp turn. “Why? Did you think I would keep grilling you once I found out what I needed to know?”

Johnson shrugged. “Never can tell, sir. It’s happened before, Lord knows.” He didn’t have to worry about keeping the commandant sweet. Brigadier General Healey was going to despise him till one of them died.

He hoped Healey would erupt now. For a couple of seconds, he thought the commandant would. But no such luck. After a long exhalation, Healey growled, “I haven’t got time to play games with you today, Lieutenant Colonel. Get the hell out of my office.”

“Yes, sir,” Johnson said, and glided away. He wondered if the commandant would throw something at him to speed him on his way, but Healey didn’t.

Out in the corridor, Johnson looked at his watch. He’d made better time out among the asteroids than he’d expected; he wasn’t due back in the control room for another hour and a half. That left him to ponder whether he felt more like sleep or company. He yawned experimentally, then shook his head. He could do without sleep a while longer. Which left…” The refectory,” he murmured, as if giving orders to his chauffeur.

But he was his own chauffeur. He brachiated down the corridor till he came to the entrance to the large chamber. It was the middle of the afternoon, ship’s time: not a meal period. The place was crowded anyway; because it was the biggest chamber in the Lewis and Clark, and because people did assemble there for meals, they’d got into the habit of gathering there to chat and socialize whether it was mealtime or not.

Lucy Vegetti spotted him floating in the entranceway and waved. He waved back and swung his way toward her. As he drew near, he spotted Mickey Flynn hanging on to a nearby handhold. “You two plotting together?” he asked.

“Of course,” Flynn said solemnly. “What else would we be doing? This is, after all, a ship full of conspiracies about to hatch.”

“And if you don’t believe him,” Lucy added, “just ask the Lizards.”

“Oh, I believe him,” Johnson said. “After all, could a man with a face like that possibly tell a lie?”

“Why, the mere idea is ridiculous,” Flynn said.

“Besides,” Johnson went on, “I just spent a few hours in the scooter adding to the Lizards’ paranoid fantasies.” And to Brigadier General Healey’s, he thought, but he didn’t say that out loud.

Lucy Vegetti wagged a finger at him in mock indignation. “You’ve been visiting rocks with no motors on them again.” She paused. “Did you notice anything interesting on any of them?”

“Spoken like a geologist,” Glen said, at which she stuck out her tongue at him. He continued, “I didn’t see anything that struck me as strange, no. Sorry. But I did do a little buck-and-wing with the Lizard probe that was trundling along after me.” He described how he’d treated it as if it were an American installation, not a spacecraft belonging to the Race.

“I like that.” Lucy nodded, then turned to Flynn. “What do you think, Mickey?”

“How could I presume to disagree?” the backup pilot asked. “If I did, you would presume me presumptuous.”

“Anybody who knows you is more likely to presume you preposterous,” Johnson said.

“I am affronted,” Flynn declared, letting go of the handhold so he could fold his arms across his chest and show how affronted he was. As far as Johnson was concerned, that only made him look more preposterous. And, since air currents started to move him away from the handhold, he had to reach out and grab it again.

“To the Lizards, we’re all preposterous,” Lucy said.

“That’s part of the game,” Johnson said. “The less seriously they take us-us as people generally and us as the people out here-the better off we are.”

“If they didn’t take us seriously, would that probe have followed you everywhere you went, like Mary’s little lamb?” Mickey Flynn enjoyed playing devil’s advocate.

“Maybe not,” Johnson admitted. “But if I run around doing crazy things, after a while the Lizards will just be sure I’m nuts, and then they won’t take me seriously any more. That’ll be good, like I said.”

“It would have been better if they thought we were just out here mining,” Lucy said. “Now that they know we’re turning little asteroids into weapons, they’re going to keep a closer eye on us.”

“They’ll keep a closer eye on us while we’re doing that,” Flynn said.

Johnson nodded. “Mickey’s right. The asteroids are useful as weapons, but they’re also useful as camouflage. The Race is paying an awful lot of attention to those rocks, and to the motors on them. The Race is paying attention to us when we go to them. It’s paying attention to us when we set up motors on new rocks, and when we look rocks over to see if they’d be good with motors on them.”

“I know.” Lucy nodded, too. “And the Lizards aren’t paying so much attention while we go on about our real business-our A-number-one real business, I mean-out here.” She looked from Johnson to Flynn and back again. “Do you really think we’ll be able to launch a starship by the turn of the century?”

“I’ll be an old man by then,” Glen Johnson said. “Too old to be in space, by rights. But I hope I’ll still be around to see it.”

“Me, too,” Lucy said. “The Lizards got here. We ought to be able to go see Home.”

“Who knows where the Russians will be by then, either?” Mickey Flynn said. “Maybe they’ll be right behind us-or right beside us. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Home. Ten light-years away-a little more. Something to look forward to,” Johnson said. “We should always have that.” His friends nodded once more.