“Something else that would be disadvantageous to the Race,” Ttomalss answered. “I can conceive of the Deutsche making no other demand. They may be mad, but they are not such fools as to throw away something that hurts us without getting something else in return.”

“A pity,” Kassquit remarked. “Perhaps you can arrange to give them something that seems to be to their advantage but is not.”

“And what happens when they discover this?” Ttomalss asked. “They begin smuggling ginger again, no longer having any disincentive to restrain them.”

“Oh,” Kassquit said in a small voice. “I had not thought of that. It is truth, superior sir.” Regardless of whether she’d prevailed over Tessrek, she wasn’t going to be right all the time.

“Have general conditions on the ship grown more stable since last we talked?” Ttomalss asked. “I hope so. Being in Nuremberg is a trial, but, despite appearances, I do not expect to stay here forever.”

“Somewhat, but only somewhat,” Kassquit answered. “As I told you, I fear I was rude to Tessrek not long ago.” She did not fear that; she took an almost feral joy in it. The language of the Race, though, lent itself more readily to polite phrases.

Ttomalss said, “Tessrek is the only male I know whose central nervous system connects directly to his cloaca.” He waited for Kassquit to use the hand gesture that showed she thought he was right, then went on, “I hope you were thoroughly rude to the obnoxious obscurantist.”

“I believe so, yes.” Kassquit took a new pleasure in recounting in greater detail the exchange between the researcher and her, and yet another in watching Ttomalss laugh.

After he’d closed his mouth again, Ttomalss said, “Good for you. He has been insolent for too long. High time he truly learned he can no longer sharpen his claws on your hide with impunity.”

“I do thank you for your support, superior sir,” Kassquit said. “Lately, I have not had so much of that support as I might have liked. I am glad to see it return.”

“You need less support than you did at one time,” the male who had fostered her from hatchlinghood replied. “Your adolescence is nearly completed. Soon you will be an adult, as independent as any other.”

“Yes, superior sir,” Kassquit said dutifully, but she could not help adding, “An adult what? For I am not a Tosevite, not in any sense except my biology, but I cannot fully be a female of the Race, for that same biology prevents me from doing so.”

She did not think Ttomalss would have an answer for her; he never had before when she’d asked similar questions. But now he did: “An adult citizen of the Empire, Kassquit. Rabotevs and Hallessi are not members of the Race, either, but they reverence the Emperor, and spirits of Emperors past watch over them when they die. The same will be true for you in all respects.”

She tasted the words. “An adult citizen of the Empire,” she repeated. “I would be the first Tosevite citizen of the Empire, would I not?”

“You would indeed,” Ttomalss agreed. “By your actions-even by your standing up to a male who unjustly abused you-you have proved you deserve the designation. Eventually, all Tosevites will be citizens of the Empire. You will be remembered as the one who showed the way, as one who made a bridge between Tosevites on the one fork of the tongue and the Empire on the other.”

Kassquit’s tongue, as Tessrek had reminded her, had no fork. For the first time since she’d realized how different she was from everyone around her, she didn’t care. “It is good, superior sir,” she said to Ttomalss. She meant every word of it. For the first time since she’d realized how different she was, she knew her place again.

The telephone in David Goldfarb’s flat rang. Naomi, who was closer, went and answered it: “Hullo?” She paused, listening, then turned to her husband. “It’s for you, David.”

He got off the sofa. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know,” Naomi answered, a hand cupped over the mouthpiece. “Not a familiar voice… I don’t think.” She sounded a little doubtful.

With a shrug, he took the telephone. “Goldfarb here.”

“And I’m glad of it, old man,” the fellow on the other end of the line replied. “How are you and your lovely wife this evening?”

“Fine, thank you, Group Captain Roundbush,” Goldfarb answered tightly. He’d recognized that upper-crust accent at once, though Naomi would have heard it only a few times over the years. “What can I do for you, sir?” He knew, with a grim and mournful certainty, that Basil Roundbush had not rung him up to pass a few pleasant minutes.

“Funny you should ask that,” Roundbush said, though Goldfarb didn’t think it was funny at all. “There is a spot of work you could do for me, if you happen to feel like it.”

He made it sound as if he were truly asking a favor rather than giving a thinly veiled order. Maybe that amused him. It didn’t amuse David Goldfarb. “What have you got in mind, sir?” he asked. “Canvassing for Mosley’s bill, perhaps? A bit late for that, I’m afraid; it seems dead for this session of Parliament.” Naomi’s eyes got round.

“Why, so it does, and, if you want my opinion, a good thing, too,” Roundbush said. “Tell me the truth, Goldfarb: have I ever denigrated you on account of your faith? Ever in all the years we’ve known each other?”

“You’ve used me on account of my faith,” Goldfarb said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Oh, but my dear fellow, that’s business. It’s not personal.” Roundbush sounded hurt that Goldfarb couldn’t make the distinction.

“It’s not just business when I’m so vulnerable to it.” Goldfarb wondered if he should have said that, but it couldn’t be anything Roundbush didn’t know. “You still haven’t told me what you want from me tonight.”

“Quite,” Roundbush said, which wasn’t an answer. “Perhaps we could meet tomorrow afternoon at that pub with the excellent Guinness-what was the name of the place again? — and discuss it there.”

“Robinsons,” Goldfarb said automatically.

“Right. See you at Robinsons, then, at half past five tomorrow.” The line went dead.

“What was that in aid of?” Naomi asked after David hung up, too.

“I don’t precisely know,” he answered. “Whatever it was, it was something the distinguished group captain”-he laced the words with as much sarcasm as he could-“didn’t care to discuss over the telephone wires. Which means, all too likely, it’s something that won’t stand the light of day.”

“Something to do with ginger,” Naomi said.

“I can’t think of any other business Roundbush is involved in that he doesn’t care to discuss over the telephone,” David said. “Of course, I don’t know all the business he’s involved in, either.”

“Can’t you stay away, then?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I wish I could, but you know it’s impossible as well as I do. I have to see what he wants-and see if I can talk him out of it.”

He got his chance the next evening, pulling up in front of Robinsons on his bicycle at exactly the appointed time in spite of a cold, nasty drizzle. When he went inside, he bought himself a whiskey-it didn’t seem a night for stout-and sat as close to the fire as he could get. He’d beaten Roundbush to the pub, which left him glowing with virtue-and hoping his superior wouldn’t show up.

But in Group Captain Roundbush came, dapper as ever, and sat down at the table with Goldfarb. “That’s not the worst idea anyone ever had,” he said, pointing to the whiskey, and ordered one for himself. When it came, he raised the glass high. “Here’s to you, old man.”

“You don’t need to butter me up, sir,” Goldfarb said. “Whatever it is you’ve got in mind, I’m probably stuck with it.”

“Now that’s a fine attitude!” Basil Roundbush said. “I’m about to offer the man an expense-paid holiday on the French Riviera-sounds all the better, doesn’t it, with the drips and trickles outside? — and he says he’s stuck with it. Plenty of chaps’d be happy to pay to go there, believe you me they would.”