Aftershocks (66 page)

“Big Uglies stress kinship as we stress friendship,” Felless said, and the male with her made the affirmative gesture. She went on, “Ask her if she thinks this male Tosevite would be willing to do the work of translating, and what sort of pay both she and he would expect for working with Ttomalss.”

“I am sure Pierre would be willing,” Monique Dutourd replied. “There is a certain difficulty, however: the Race presently has him imprisoned for smuggling ginger. If you can do anything to get him released, I would be grateful.”

“I would not mind seeing Pierre Dutourd released myself,” Felless’ translator remarked. “I have bought a good deal of the herb from him, and it is harder to find now—not impossible, but harder.”

“Truth,” Felless said. “But can we get him released for this project?”

“I
cannot,” the male said. “You may have better connections than I do.”

“Tell Monique Dutourd I will try to arrange her kinsmale’s release,” Felless said with more than a little trepidation. “Tell her I can guarantee nothing, for I am not sure how far my influence will reach. Ask her if she would consider discussing these matters with Ttomalss even if I cannot arrange this other Big Ugly’s release.”

She had no great hope for that. She knew only too well that the Tosevites took an affront against their kinsfolk as an affront against themselves. But, to her surprise, Monique Dutourd replied, “Yes, I would be willing, though I am grateful for your making the effort to help him.”

“I will do what I can,” Felless said, hoping the Tosevite female could not hear her relief. “I hope you will also seek other possible interpreters.”

“It shall be done,” the Big Ugly said in the language of the Race—that was one phrase a great many Tosevites knew, even if they knew no more.

After getting off the phone with Monique Dutourd, Felless thought hard about ignoring her promise. Having anything public to do with ginger was all too likely to get her in trouble with the Race’s authorities. But she wouldn’t have minded seeing Pierre Dutourd free, either.

And so, despite misgivings, she telephoned Ambassador Veffani. He was as suspicious as she’d known he would be. “You want to set that rogue free to cause trouble for the Race again?” he demanded. “How much ginger will he give you in exchange for this freedom?”

“I have not spoken with him at all, superior sir. How could I?” Felless tried to make herself the very image of righteousness. “His name was mentioned as a possible interpreter by a Tosevite historian whom I contacted at the request of Senior Researcher Ttomalss. You are welcome to confirm that with Ttomalss, if you like.”

“Believe me, I shall,” Veffani said. “How is it that a notorious ginger smuggler came up in a conversation with a Tosevite scholar? I find this hard to believe.”

“Find it however you please, superior sir,” Felless answered. “The scholar and the smuggler happen to share a mother and father. You know how Big Uglies are in matters relating to kinship.”

Veffani let out an unhappy hiss. “I do indeed. It is that sort of difficulty, is it? And I suppose the Tosevite scholar will have nothing to do with us unless we release the Tosevite criminal?”

Monique Dutourd hadn’t said anything of the sort. Felless didn’t care to lie outright to Veffani, but she did want to accomplish her own goals as well as Ttomalss’. “You know how Big Uglies are,” she repeated, and let the ambassador draw his own conclusions.

“So I do,” Veffani said with a sigh. “Well, perhaps we can arrange to release him long enough to do the necessary work and then return him to prison.” He caught himself before Felless could say anything. “No, the odds are it would not work. Let me speak with Ttomalss and find out just how important his work is. If he makes the request for this translator, I can release the Big Ugly with a better conscience.”

“I thank you, superior sir,” said Felless, who hadn’t expected to gain even that much from the ambassador.

“I am not nearly sure you are welcome,” Veffani answered. “As I say, I shall consult with Ttomalss. He has the respect and admiration of the fleetlord—and he has never been known to taste ginger.” He broke the connection.

Felless glared at the monitor. No, Ttomalss didn’t taste. That hadn’t kept him from mating with her when she tasted. Not tasting hadn’t kept Veffani from mating with her when she tasted, either. When females tasted, they
would
emit pheromones and males
would
mate with them. That, of course, was the problem with the herb.

She wondered how the two ginger-addicted members of the Race who’d sought an exclusive mating contract with each other were doing among the Tosevite barbarians of the United States. She didn’t approve of what they had done. Big Uglies were supposed to take on the customs and usages of the Race, not the other way round. No, she didn’t approve. But even so . . .

Ginger,
she thought. Without the herb, the Race would have had a much easier time on Tosev 3. Easier, yes, but not nearly so enjoyable. The urge for a taste surged up within her. She tried to resist, but not very hard. And hadn’t that been the way she’d dealt with ginger ever since her first taste? She hurried to the desk, took out the vial, poured some of the powdered herb into her palm, and let her tongue dart out.

Delight shot through her. So did a feeling of brilliance, of omnipotence. She’d learned the hard way it was only a feeling, not reality. The first thing she had to do with that supposed brilliance was figure out a reason for staying here inside her chamber till she wasn’t emitting pheromones any more. If she failed there, she would have males mating with her—and she would have endless trouble from Ambassador Veffani.

She didn’t care. No, she did care—but not enough to keep her from tasting. Never enough to keep her from tasting. What could she do while she was stuck in here?
Research Tosevite history,
she thought.
Why not? It has suddenly become relevant, and I can claim it is something I truly need to know. Who are, or were, these Romans, anyway?
She began seeing what, if anything, the Race’s data stores could tell her.

When the telephone rang, Mordechai Anielewicz hoped it would be the landlord with whom he’d spoken a couple of days before. There was a sellers’ market for flats in Przemysl these days, as there was throughout Poland. But he did have hopes of moving into a bigger place, which he knew his family sorely needed. He hurried to the phone and answered with an eager, “Hello?”

But it wasn’t the landlord, who was a big, bluff fellow named Szymanski. Instead, he heard the hisses and pops of a Lizard’s voice: “Do I speak to Mordechai Anielewicz, the leader of those who follow the Jewish superstition in Poland?”

“You do,” Anielewicz replied in the language of the Race. “And may I ask to whom I speak now?” He had trouble telling one Lizard’s voice from another’s.

“You may indeed, Mordechai Anielewicz,” the Lizard replied. “I am Gorppet, whom you met outside Greifswald, and with whom you have spoken since. I greet you.”

“And I greet you,” Mordechai said. “This will have something to do with the missing explosive-metal bomb, unless I miss my guess.”

“Truth—it will,” Gorppet agreed. “I would like you to do me a favor that, I believe, will make its recovery more likely.”

“I will be glad to do so,” Anielewicz answered, “as long as it is nothing that endangers any of my fellow Jews except for the ones who have taken the bomb.”

“I do not believe that will be a problem,” Gorppet said.

“Go ahead, then,” Mordechai said. “I shall have to be the final judge of that, though. I warn you now, to avoid misunderstandings later.”

“I understand,” the Lizard said. “You may perhaps be interested to learn that we have recruited your acquaintance, the Deutsch officer named Johannes Drucker, to provide us with information and work with us from his new post in Flensburg.”

“Have you?” Mordechai said. “How did you manage that?” He had trouble imagining Drucker working with the Race. But one possible way to get the rocket pilot’s cooperation crossed his mind. “Did you threaten to tell his superiors that he and I worked together for a little while without trying to slaughter each other?”

“That is exactly what we did, as a matter of fact,” Gorppet answered. “You must be well schooled in duplicity, to have figured it out so quickly.”

“Maybe.” Mordechai admired Gorppet for thinking of it. Not many Lizards would have. “However that may be, what do you want me to do?”

“We informed the Deutsche that this bomb might be on the territory of their not-empire. I have learned from Johannes Drucker that the Deutsch constabulary believe it to have been hidden not far from the city of Breslau. You are familiar with the city of Breslau?” Gorppet said.

“Yes, I am familiar with it,” Anielewicz answered. “That is, I know of it. I have never been inside it. The Deutsche touched off an explosive-metal bomb near there during the first round of fighting.”

“Indeed. And the Race detonated one on the city during the more recent combat,” Gorppet said. “Breslau itself is not presently inhabited or inhabitable. But the surrounding towns and villages remain densely populated. If the bomb were to explode, it would do severe damage. It might cause new fighting, much of which would involve Poland.”

That struck Anielewicz as probable, too, unpleasantly so. “I ask you again: what do you want me to do?”

“We of the Race have moved combat teams into the area,” Gorppet replied. “The Deutsche have also moved combat teams into the area. But no one is eager to try to retake the bomb. Failure would be expensive.”

“Truth.” Mordechai used an emphatic cough to show how big a truth it was. He went on, “There are enough Tosevites with the bomb that you can-not wait for them all to sleep at the same time?”

“That appears to be the case, yes,” Gorppet said. “And so we were hoping you might go to this town near Breslau and try to persuade the fellow members of your superstition to surrender, and to return the bomb. We are willing to promise them safe conduct and freedom from punishment, and we shall enforce this on the Deutsche.”

“Why do you suppose these Jews will listen to me?” Mordechai asked. “If they were the sort who would listen to me, they would never have taken the bomb into the
Reich
in the first place.”

“If they will not listen to you, to whom will they listen?” the Lizard asked in return. “Suggest a name. We would be grateful for that.”

Try as he would, Anielewicz couldn’t come up with any names. “Maybe,” he said hopefully, “they have not set off the bomb because they cannot, because it will not detonate any more.”

“No one has seemed eager to experiment along those lines,” Gorppet said. “Will you come to the environs of Breslau? If you choose to do so, both the Race and the Deutsche will obey your orders.”

“I will come,” Anielewicz said.

“Good,” Gorppet answered. “Pack whatever you need. Pack quickly. Transportation will be laid on. Farewell.” He hung up.

“What are you doing?” Bertha Anielewicz exclaimed when Mordechai started throwing clothes into the cheap cardboard suitcase that was the only one they owned. He explained as he went on packing. That made his wife exclaim again, louder than ever.

“I know,” he said. “What choice have I got?”

He hoped she would come up with one for him. She didn’t. All she said was, “You’re doing this for the Germans?”

He shook his head. “I’m doing this to keep the war from hitting Poland again. If that helps the Germans . . .” He shrugged. “What can you do?”

Somebody knocked on the door. Bertha opened it. A man spoke in Polish: “I’m here for Mordechai Anielewicz.”

“I’m coming,” he said, and grabbed the suitcase. He kissed his wife on the way out, then followed the man downstairs to a beat-up motorcar. They got in. The car zoomed off to a park. A helicopter waited there, rotors spinning. He scrambled into it. He didn’t fit well: it was made by and for Lizards. The helicopter roared off to an airstrip a few kilometers outside of Przemysl. A jet aircraft sat on the runway. Its motors were already running. As soon as Anielewicz boarded and sat down in one of the uncomfortable seats, the airplane took off. Half an hour later, he was on the outskirts of Breslau.

A male came up to him while he was still wondering if he’d remembered to bring a toothbrush. “I am Gorppet,” the Lizard said. “I greet you.”

“And I greet you,” Mordechai answered. “What are you doing here, if I may ask? Are you an expert on explosive-metal bombs?”

“Me?” Gorppet made the negative gesture. “Hardly. But my superiors have decided I
am
an expert on Johannes Drucker and Mordechai Anielewicz. That is the expertise that brought me here to meet you. Am I not a lucky male?”

“Very lucky,” Anielewicz agreed. He didn’t know how to say
cynic
in the language of the Race, but thought Gorppet’s picture could have illustrated the dictionary definition. “Where near Breslau do you think the bomb is hidden?”

“Somewhere in the town called Kanth. Where, no one has bothered to tell me yet,” Gorppet replied—a cynic, sure enough. “In this strange environment, it could be anywhere, and that is a truth. Altogether too much water on this world.”

The vicinity of Breslau didn’t seem so strange to Anielewicz. The city had sprawled on both sides of the Oder and over the numerous islands in the river. Dozens of bridges had spanned the Oder. These days, Breslau itself was wreckage and nothing else but, thanks to the explosive-metal bomb that had burst above the city. Considering what the Germans had visited on Poland—and anywhere else their bombs could reach—Mordechai had a certain amount of trouble feeling sympathetic.

He pointed ahead. “This little town here—Kanth?—hardly seems to have many hiding places for a bomb.”

“Easy enough to hide a bomb,” Gorppet answered. “Harder to hide that we are looking for it.”

And there, as the Race would have said, was another truth. The Lizards had set up a command post outside of Kanth. The Germans had set up another one. If there were Jews holed up in there with ten tonnes’ worth of explosive-metal bomb, they could hardly doubt they’d been noticed.