Aftershocks (30 page)

“Praise from one who does good work himself is praise indeed,” Ttomalss said. “I have met Sam Yeager only briefly, but I know his hatchling, Jonathan Yeager, a good deal better. He shows considerable promise. And I am familiar with the older Tosevite’s work. He is perceptive.”

“He is more than perceptive. There are times when I wonder if he somehow had the spirit of a male of the Race hatched by mistake into a Big Ugly’s body,” Straha said. “When I was in exile, he was the best friend I had, regardless of species.”

“I see.” Ttomalss wondered what that said about Straha and about the expatriates from the Race in the United States.

“Do you?” Straha said. “I doubt it. Did anyone tell you that I did what I did not for the sake of the Race but for the sake of Sam Yeager, to try to save him from the difficulties into which he seems to have fallen with officials of the government of his own not-empire?”

“Yes, I was informed of that,” Ttomalss said. “It does not particularly surprise me. Ties of kinship are stronger among the Big Uglies than they are among us. Ties of friendship are stronger among us than among them. This bespeaks our higher degree of civilization: an individual chooses his friends, but has no control over who his kinsfolk are. Still, a friendship across species lines is somewhat out of the ordinary.”

“Sam Yeager is no ordinary Big Ugly, as you have already admitted,” Straha said. “I hope he is safe and unharmed; the Tosevites play political games more violently than we do.” The renegade paused. “The other thing I will note, Senior Researcher, is that I am no ordinary male of the Race.”

“You could not have made yourself so difficult if you were,” Ttomalss replied.

“Truth.” Straha used an emphatic cough. Fortunately, he took the comment as praise rather than the reverse. “And I am proud to note that I have proved as difficult for the Tosevites as I have for the Race.” He waggled one eye turret at Ttomalss. “And now, I have no doubt, you will want to put me under the microscope, the way all these other snoops have done.”

“It is my duty.” But Ttomalss wondered how much Straha cared about duty. He had abandoned first the Race and then the American Big Uglies when expedience seemed to dictate such a course. That sort of untrammeled individualism was more typical of Tosevites than of his kind.

“Well, go ahead, then.” Straha suddenly sounded amiable—so amiable, it made Ttomalss suspicious.

But he had the invitation, and would do his best to make the most of it. “Very well. How is it that you put the Tosevite Yeager’s welfare above that of any male of the Race?”

“Why should I not?” When Straha returned a question for a question, Ttomalss’ certainty that he was in for a difficult time hardened. But then the ex-shiplord condescended to explain: “I have become more intimately acquainted with him than with any male of the Race on Tosev 3. I like him better, too. He is both intelligent and reliable. And he obtained the information I sent on to Atvar at considerable risk to himself. I do not even know if he is presently living. If he is not, I am more certain the spirits of Emperors past will cherish his spirit than those of a good many males of the Race I could name.”

That was a more detailed answer than Ttomalss had expected. Straha showed a good deal of hostility toward the Race, but a defector could hardly be expected to show anything else. Ttomalss tried a related question: “Do you believe Yeager’s virtues, as you describe them, reflect him as an individual or the not-empire from which he comes?”

“Now that is an
interesting
question,” Straha said. “One can tell you are a true psychological researcher and not one of those males from Security, whose vision is so narrowly focused, they might as well have no eye turrets at all.”

“I thank you,” Ttomalss said, his voice dry. “Now, instead of praising the question, would you be so kind as to answer it?”

Straha laughed. “If I happen to feel like it,” he said. “Do you enjoy this chance to be rude to a male whose proper rank is so much higher than your own?”

That was a well-aimed claw. Ttomalss had to look inside himself before replying, “Yes, perhaps I do.” After a heartbeat’s pause, he added, “And you still have not answered the question.”

“Since you show a certain basic honesty, perhaps I will.” Straha still sounded amused. “I fear the answer will be more ambiguous than you might prefer, however.”

“Life is full of ambiguities,” Ttomalss said.

“Well, well. My congratulations,” Straha told him. “You are not a hatch-ling any more. You have become an adult.”

More than half mockingly, Ttomalss bent into the posture of respect. “Once more, I thank you,” he said. “And, once more, you have not answered.”

He wondered if Straha would keep on playing word games with him, but the ex-shiplord just said, “Oh, very well. Part of it is Yeager as Yeager, and part is Yeager as an American. That not-empire stresses individualism to a degree the Race finds incomprehensible. Good Big Uglies can be very fine indeed under that system, and Yeager is. Bad Big Uglies have full scope for their evil, inept ones for their incompetence. There are many great successes in the United States, and as many dreadful failures.”

“Yes, I have heard something of this,” Ttomalss said. “In my view, it is freedom turned to license.”

“I think the same thing,” Straha said. “Do you know that, not long after the ships of the colonization fleet were attacked, I told an American reporter I believed his not-empire had made the assault? He was fully prepared to print the story in a leading periodical until I explained I was merely yanking his tailstump.”

“The government of the United States would never have permitted such a story to appear,” Ttomalss said.

“So I thought as well, Senior Researcher, but he assured me I was wrong. Other American Big Uglies have told me the same thing,” Straha said. “The Americans insist that an altogether untrammeled flow of information produces the most rapid progress—their preferred word for change. If progress is seen as desirable, one would be hard pressed to disagree with them.”

“Amazing,” Ttomalss said. Even he was unsure whether he meant the American Tosevites’ preposterous lack of concern for security or their astonishing pace of technological change.

“There is, I trust you will agree, a certain irony to my present situation,” Straha said.

“Oh, indeed,” Ttomalss replied. “But then, your situation in the United States was full of irony almost from the beginning, was it not? Most of what has changed lately is the scope of things.”

“I like the way you put that: the scope of things,” Straha said. “Before, the Big Uglies used me without much trusting me because I had betrayed the Race. Now the Race will use me without much trusting me because I am betraying the Americans. This leaves me nowhere to go, no one to turn to.”

Ttomalss had wondered if Straha fully understood his own situation. Hearing that, the psychological researcher decided he had one less thing to worry about.

Because of whom she knew, Kassquit found herself sitting on several secrets that, when they hatched from their eggs, might go up like explosive-metal bombs. The first electronic message from Jonathan Yeager asking for the Race’s help in locating his father had come some days before.

I shall do what I can,
she’d written back.
I do not know how much that will be.

She had liked Sam Yeager well enough in their couple of meetings, and rather better than well enough in their electronic correspondence. But her feelings for Jonathan Yeager were the main factor in her seeking to help his father.

She had telephoned Reffet’s office first of all. Because she’d discovered that Sam Yeager, wild Tosevite, was roaming the Race’s electronic network, she thought she might get prompt attention from the fleetlord. And, in fact, she did; he returned her call quite quickly. When she explained what she wanted and why, he said, “As a matter of fact, that matter is already under investigation. No decision has yet been made as to whether to raise it with the relevant Tosevite authorities.”

“I . . . see,” Kassquit said, not seeing at all. “There is some concern for this Big Ugly’s safety.”

“I understand that,” Reffet said. “There is concern for more than the safety of this one Big Ugly, I assure you.”

That was all he would say. Kassquit tried calling Fleetlord Atvar, but his adjutant would not forward her call. She reported the curious and not altogether satisfactory conversations to Jonathan Yeager.

And then, almost without warning, Ttomalss departed for the surface of Tosev 3. “I must aid in the interrogation of a returned defector, a shiplord who has spent almost all of his time on Tosev 3 in the not-empire of the United States,” he said.

“The infamous Straha?” Kassquit asked, and Ttomalss made the affirmative gesture. Kassquit’s mind leaped. “Does his arrival have anything to do with the disappearance of the Big Ugly called Sam Yeager?”

She succeeded in astonishing her mentor. “How could you possibly know that?” Ttomalss demanded.

“I am, you will remember, still in touch with Jonathan Yeager,” Kassquit replied, “and I know that Sam Yeager and Straha are acquaintances. The connection struck me as logical.”

“I . . . see,” Kassquit said, much as Kassquit had to Reffet. “That is very perceptive of you. My data indicate that Sam Yeager and Straha are not merely acquaintances but friends. I hope to confirm this in discussion with Straha.” He paused. “That remark, in fact, was perceptive enough to make me believe you deserve to wear your junior researcher’s body paint not merely to show you are my ward and my apprentice, but with all appropriate rights and privileges. Would you like me to initiate the approval process when I find the time?”

“I thank you, superior sir,” Kassquit exclaimed. “That would be very generous of you.” It would also give her a secure place of her own in the Race’s hierarchy, which was not to be despised. And . . . “How your colleagues who disliked you for undertaking to raise a Big Ugly hatchling will be discomfited to see that hatchling taking a place in their profession.”

“I have not even the faintest notion of what you are talking about,” Ttomalss said, so matter-of-factly that Kassquit almost failed to notice the irony.

Then he’d gone down to the surface of Tosev 3. He kept in touch with Kassquit through electronic messages and telephone calls. Jonathan Yeager also kept in touch with her through electronic messages. The wild Big Ugly, she gradually realized, was frantic with concern over his father’s safety. Kassquit wondered if anyone would ever feel that much concern for her. She doubted it; such things were not in the style of the Race. Noting his intensity made her wish they were.

Do you know why your father has disappeared?
she wrote him.

Of course I do,
he wrote back.
He disappeared because he knew too much.
He added the Race’s conventional symbol for an emphatic cough.

Too much about what?
Kassquit asked.

About things it was dangerous to know about,
Jonathan Yeager replied.

“Well, of course,” Kassquit said with a snort when she saw that. She wrote,
What sorts of things?

I told you: the sorts of things that are dangerous to know,
the wild Big Ugly answered.

That made Kassquit hiss in annoyance. Jonathan Yeager was being deliberately obscure. His father had played the same sorts of games with electronic messages. After a moment, though, her annoyance subsided.
Are you not being more specific for reasons related to security?
she inquired.

Exactly so,
he replied.
I am sorry, but that is how things are. If you knew everything, it might put you in danger, and it might put me in more danger than I am already in, too.

Kassquit hadn’t thought about danger to Jonathan Yeager. Once she did think about it, though, it made sense. If Sam Yeager had disappeared because of something he knew, and if Jonathan Yeager knew the same thing, logic dictated that he too might disappear. Kassquit did make one attempt to learn more, writing,
If this knowledge is dangerous, perhaps you should pass it on so that it is not lost if something unfortunate happens to you.

I thank you, but I think I had better not,
wrote the wild Big Ugly who had been her lover—an English word he used to describe a relationship with which the Race was not familiar.
I also think my father took care of this matter, to make sure the data would not disappear with him.

Puzzle pieces that hadn’t quite fit together now suddenly did.
He passed the data on to the Shiplord Straha, who brought them to Cairo with him,
Kassquit wrote. She did not include the conventional symbol for an interrogative cough.

Jonathan Yeager waited longer before replying this time, as if thinking through just what his response ought to be. When it finally came, it was cautious:
I believe that to be a truth, yes.
He broke off the electronic conversation a little later, perhaps from concern that he might reveal too much.

What he’d already said was enough—much more than enough—to stimulate Kassquit’s always active curiosity. Straha had been a stench in the scent receptors of the Race ever since his spectacular defection. He had been favorably received on his return to Cairo. Kassquit knew that from Ttomalss. He had to have learned something important to get a favorable reception from Atvar. That reinforced the notion that Sam Yeager had known something vital and passed it on to the renegade shiplord.

The next time she spoke with Ttomalss, she asked him, “What spectacular piece of information did Straha learn from Sam Yeager?”

She was pleased when Ttomalss did not bother pretending he had no idea of what she was talking about. What he did say was, “I had better not tell you. The information is inflammatory enough that I am lucky—if that is the word I want, which I doubt—to have been entrusted with it myself.”

“Whom would I tell?” Kassquit asked. “Who among the Race would want to learn anything from me? Please remember, superior sir, I am nothing but a Big Ugly from an orphaned clutch.” The metaphor fit imperfectly, but it was the only one the Race had. “Few take me seriously. What you tell me would stay safe and secure.”