Second Contact (35 page)

“Some Lizards will be there, I expect—some of the ones living here, I mean,” Sam said, unlocking the driver’s-side door. “If you want to talk to them in their language, that’s fine. It’ll be good practice for you.” That proved an even better incentive than food. However much the Lizards fascinated Jonathan and his set, he didn’t find all that many chances to meet them.

Sam got on the Harbor Freeway at Rosecrans. The freeway had pushed that far south only a couple of years earlier; it made getting to downtown L.A. a snap—except when an accident addled things, as one did this evening. Yeager muttered and fumed till they were past it, then stepped on the gas as hard as he could.

“Good thing we left a little early,” Barbara remarked.

“Have to build in some extra time,” he answered, passing a car that wasn’t going fast enough to suit him. He laughed. “The Lizards think we’re out of our minds for driving without seat belts. But they’d never sell, never in a million years. The only thing people care about is going fast.” As if to prove his point, he zoomed past a gasoline-burning machine that couldn’t get out of its own way.

He left the freeway at Sixth and went east a few blocks to Olive, on which the Biltmore stood, across from Pershing Square. He parked in a lot north of the hotel. U.S. flags, the red banners of the People’s Liberation Army, and national flags of China—Kuomintang flags, in other words—all flew outside the twelve-story, E-shaped building. Pointing to those last, Barbara said, “She probably wishes they weren’t there.”

“You’re right. She probably does,” said Sam, who’d spent the couple of days he’d known about the reception boning up on China. He nodded toward the hotel as they came up to the entrance. “Pretty fancy place, eh, Jonathan?” He didn’t say
hot
; that wasn’t his slang, any more than
swell
was his son’s.

“It’s all right, I guess,” Jonathan answered, determined to be unimpressed.

Inside, Sam was asked to show identification. He did so without hesitation. He might have been a Lizard stooge, a Kuomintang supporter, or even a Japanese agent, none of whom had any reason to love the People’s Liberation Army. He might even have worked for the NKVD; Molotov wouldn’t want the Chinese Communists shopping anywhere but at his store. When he’d satisfied the guards that he was none of those things, they checked off his name and those of his wife and son and let them go into the reception hall.

Jonathan made a beeline for the buffet. As soon as he’d filled his plate, he stood around looking to see if any other fogies had brought along people—with luck, good-looking female people—his own age. Sam and Barbara looked at each other with identical amused expressions. At Jonathan’s age, Sam would have behaved the same way. At Jonathan’s age, though, barn dances were about the biggest social events Sam had ever seen. Even the small towns of Class D ball had seemed sophisticated to him. He shook his head. The world was a different place, a faster place, these days.

He looked around, too, not for pretty girls but to see what kind of crowd it was. When he spotted Straha, an eyebrow shot up. The shiplord raised a hand in greeting. Sam nodded back. If the chief Lizard defector was here, that put a seal of approval on the event, all right.

And there was the guest of honor, a Chinese woman who would have had to stand on her toes to make five feet. Her daughter was several inches taller—and if Jonathan hadn’t noticed her, he wasn’t paying attention, because she was a very pretty girl. Yeager got a drink, then drifted toward them to do his ceremonial duty.

Listening to Liu Han and Liu Mei, he realized they had only a little English. A Chinese man in a suit snappier than any civvies Sam owned was translating for them. Having done a good deal of translating himself, Yeager recognized its limits. The only Chinese he understood was chop suey. Still . . .
Where there’s a will, there’s a lawyer,
he thought.

When he came up to the two women, he nodded to them—he’d seen they didn’t shake hands as if they were used to doing it—and spoke in the language of the Race: “I greet you, females from a distant land.”

They both exclaimed in Chinese, then both started talking at the same time in the Lizards’ language. After a moment, Liu Mei fell silent and let her mother go ahead: “I greet you, Tosevite soldier, American soldier.” She was less fluent than Sam, but he had no trouble understanding her.

He gave her his name and his rank, and explained that his specialty was dealing with the Race. While he spoke, he noticed the Chinese man—he wore a button giving his name as Frank Wong—looking more and more unhappy. Liu Han noticed, too; Sam saw at once she had no flies on her. She spoke to Wong in Chinese. He relaxed and went off to get a drink.

Liu Han let out a sly chuckle. “I persuaded him that he was working too hard. Now he has a chance to recover.”

“Clever.” Yeager used an emphatic cough. He and Liu Han traded sly grins. He asked, “And what do you think of Americans, now that you are meeting us for the first time?”

“This is not my first meeting with Americans. Liu Mei’s father is an American,” Liu Han said. “He was a captive, as was I. We were part of the Race’s experiments on Tosevite mating habits. You know of these things?”

“I know of them, yes.” For a moment, Sam wondered why she was so openly admitting something so shameful. Then he gave himself a mental kick in the pants. She wanted to paint the Lizards black, so she could gain as much sympathy for her cause as she could.

She went on, “He was a good man. He was far and away the best man I met in these experiments. When I knew I would have a baby”—that came out as,
When I knew I would lay an egg,
but Sam understood—“he came down to China with me. He used to play your not-empire’s game, and he made money in China throwing and catching a ball as a show.”

“Baseball?” Sam said in English, and Liu Han nodded. Liu Mei turned away; Yeager wondered how often she’d heard this story. Laughing a little, he told Liu Han, “Before I was a soldier, I used to play baseball myself.”

“Truth?” she said, and he nodded. She cocked her head to one side. “Maybe you knew him.” He started to say it wasn’t likely, considering how many people played baseball in the United States. Before he could, she went on, “His name was Bobby Fiore.” She pronounced it very clearly.

“Jesus Christ!” He knocked back his scotch-and-soda at a gulp. “Bobby Fiore?” Liu Han’s head went up and down. Yeager stared. “Bobby Fiore? We played on the same team. We shared a room when we traveled. We were on the train together when the Race came down and shot it up. I got out before their helicopters landed. I never found out what happened to him.”

He stared over at Liu Mei. Now that he knew, he could see the Italian second baseman in her, in her chin, in her nose, in her hair. On her, though, it all looked good. Across twenty years, he could hear his old roomie laughing at the friendly insult.

Liu Han said, “He is dead. He died in Shanghai, fighting the Race. I was not there. But I have heard he died very bravely.”

“Bobby Fiore. My God.” Sam wished his glass weren’t empty. He wanted another slug of scotch, but he didn’t want to go away. “May I introduce my son”—he pointed toward Jonathan, and then waved for him to come over—“to your daughter, who is also the daughter of my old friend?”

“You may.” Liu Han looked in Jonathan’s direction. She must have fixed on his shaved head, for she asked, “Is he one of those who try to act like the Race?”

“He is.” Sam saw no point in beating around the bush or lying. “There are those who go further with it than he does.” That was also true, thank heaven.

“We have young males and young females like that in China, too,” Liu Han said. “I used to hate the very idea. I do not hate it so much now. The Race is here. We have to learn to live with its males and now its females. This is one way to do so.”

“I think you have good sense,” Yeager answered as Jonathan and Liu Mei exchanged polite greetings in the language of the Race.
Ain’t that something?
he thought. Barbara, could she have seen into his mind, would have disapproved of the grammar. He shrugged and went off to get that fresh drink after all.
Ain’t that something?
he thought again.

Vyacheslav Molotov examined the report from the Soviet consul in Los Angeles. He shoved the telexed sheet across his desk at Andrei Gromyko. “Have you seen this?” he asked the foreign commissar.

“I have, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich,” Gromyko answered. “Mao shows more imagination than we believed he had.”

“Mao shows himself a nationalist first and a Marxist-Leninist second,” Molotov said. “This is, of course, one of the sins for which he so noisily condemned Stalin.”

“He could afford to be noisy in condemning Stalin,” Gromyko said. “He lives well beyond the frontier.”

Both men warily looked around. Stalin had been dead for most of a decade, but his spirit lingered in the Kremlin. Molotov had to remind himself his predecessor could not harm him. Even after reminding himself, he said, “Living beyond the frontier did not always make a difference, Andrei Andreyevich. Remember what happened to Trotsky.”

“An ice axe in the brain?” Gromyko considered. “I can think of ways I would sooner leave the world, yes.” He glanced at Molotov. “Are you suggesting that Mao should worry about such a thing? If you are, you would do better to whisper it in Lavrenti Pavlovich’s ear than in mine.”

“No.” Not without some regret, Molotov shook his head. “Trotsky was an annoyance, a loose end. Mao leads a formidable force in the fight against the Lizards’ imperialism. I can think of no one else in the Chinese party who could take his place.”

“And we did provoke him, too,” Gromyko said musingly.

“What has that to do with anything?” Molotov asked in genuine curiosity. “He is useful to us, so we have to put up with him for the time being. But we do not want him getting too friendly with the Americans. Having their influence on the Siberian frontier would be even more of a nuisance than having the Lizards there, because the Americans are less likely to keep whatever agreements they make.”

Gromyko paused to light a cigarette: a Russian one, a little tobacco in a tube like a holder. After taking a puff, he said, “If we want to bring Mao back into the fold, we will have to start moving weapons into China again.”

“I think we can do that,” Molotov said. “The fuss the Lizards put up over the attack on the colonization fleet has died down. Whoever did that planned with great wisdom. My only qualm is that I do not care to believe either Himmler or Warren is so wise. But yes, I think we can safely resume shipments.”

“Very well,” Gromyko said. “I think you are right. If we are caught, the usual denials will serve in a case like that.”

Molotov looked at him with something as close to affection as he gave anyone but his wife. If Gromyko’s cynicism did not match his own, it came close. A man without cynicism had no business running a great country, as far as the General Secretary was concerned. That was one reason Earl Warren made him nervous.

Gromyko said, “I have also learned, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, that there is some derangement in the networks of officials and other criminals who smuggle ginger into the Lizards’ territory. The Germans, the British, and the Americans are all in full cry. I hope their internal struggles do not disrupt the trade.”

“Indeed,” Molotov said indifferently. “I have heard something of this from Beria. He will be watching it, too.”

Gromyko did not flinch, for which Molotov admired him. Molotov had not actually heard anything from the NKVD chief. But keeping his followers eyeing each other was one way to keep them from eyeing the top spot in the hierarchy.

“I hope,” Gromyko said slowly, “that whatever ginger-smuggling channels the NKVD has set up will not be deranged by this fuss among the capitalists. We have made considerable profit from ginger.”

“And what could be more important to good Marxist-Leninists than profit?” Molotov returned. His wintry sense of humor was a good match for Gromyko’s. He went on, “Now that you know the line we are to take in regard to Mao, can I rely on Lavrenti Pavlovich and you to implement it?”

“One never knows how far one may rely on Beria,” Gromyko answered, which Molotov found most unfortunate, but which was also true. “On me, and on the Foreign Commissariat, you may of course rely.”

Beria, had he been there, would have claimed he was loyal and the Foreign Commissariat riddled with spies for the Nazis and the Americans and the Lizards. Beria was loyal to himself and the Soviet Union, in that order. He had been loyal to Stalin, a countryman of his, or as near as made no difference. Molotov eyed Gromyko. Was Gromyko loyal to him in particular? In a struggle against Beria, yes, he judged. Otherwise? Maybe, maybe not. But Gromyko was not the sort to head a
coup d’état
. That would do. It would have to do.

“See to it, then,” Molotov said. Gromyko nodded and left. Molotov’s dismissals were brusque, but they weren’t brutal, as Stalin’s had been.

Molotov’s secretary stuck his head into the office. “Comrade General Secretary, your next appointment is here.”

“Send him in, Pyotr Maksimovich,” Molotov said. The secretary bobbed his head in a gesture of respect that went back to the days of the Tsars, then went out and murmured to the man in the waiting room.

The fellow came in a moment later. He was thin and middle-aged, with an intelligent face that clearly showed he was a Jew. He carried a topcoat and a fur hat against the nasty weather outside. Here in the Kremlin, sweat beaded his face. Also going back to the days of the Tsars, and to long before the days of the Tsars, was the Russian habit of heating buildings very warm to fight the winter cold. Molotov waved the man to the chair Gromyko had just vacated.

“Thank you, Comrade General Secretary,” the fellow said. His Polish accent put Molotov in mind of that of the Lizard ambassador’s interpreter.

“You are welcome, David Aronovich,” Molotov replied. “And what is the latest news from Poland?”

“Colonization by the Lizards is proceeding more rapidly than either the Poles or the Jews expected,” David Nussboym answered. “This suits the Jews better than the Poles. The Jews know they could not rule on their own. Many Poles still harbor nationalist fantasies.”