“I understand,” Atvar said. “Very well: I will see what can be done. And what can be done, Dr. Russie, shall be done.”

“I thank you, Exalted Fleetlord,” Moishe Russie said. “These Tosevites, for your information, were seized in the city of Marseille.”

“Yes, yes,” Atvar said impatiently. Russie didn’t know he already knew that: it was, at any rate, the city in which Summers and Auerbach (he gathered the female was more important, or at least more deeply involved in the ginger trade, than the male) had been sent. “I shall investigate, and I shall do what I think best in this regard.”

Russie thanked him again, then broke the connection. Atvar looked at the square on the screen, now blank, where the Big Ugly’s image had appeared. He hissed in slow, almost reluctant approval. A male of the Race could not have begged for a favor any more effectively than Russie had done. And Russie had known Atvar would be likely to give him what he wanted for the sake of irking the Deutsche.

After replaying his conversation with Moishe Russie to remind himself of the name of the doctor’s relatives, Atvar telephoned the Deutsch Foreign Ministry in Nuremberg. The image of the Big Ugly on the screen was less sharp than Moishe Russie’s had been; Tosevite video equipment did not measure up to that which the Race manufactured.

Despite the poor quality of the image, Atvar thought he saw surprise on the Big Ugly’s mobile features when the fellow got a good look at his body paint. “Are you familiar with the matter of David Goldfarb?” the fleetlord demanded, as if to a subordinate he knew to be none too bright.

Rather to his surprise, the Tosevite answered, “I am. In what way does this case interest the Race?”

“I want this Tosevite released-and,” Atvar added, “the other two Tosevites, the Americans, seized with him.”

“Three other Tosevites were seized with him,” the Deutsch male replied. “One of them was Pierre Dutourd, the notorious ginger smuggler. Do you want him released, too? He and the other three were, I repeat, all seized together.”

Moishe Russie hadn’t said anything about that. Atvar suddenly wondered whether this Goldfarb had been helping Auerbach and Summers or whether he’d been on the smuggler’s side. Still, the Tosevite’s question had an obvious answer: “Yes, give us this Pierre Dutourd, too. Ginger-smuggling is a wicked business; we will punish him.”

“Ginger-smuggling is not a crime under the laws of the Reich,” the Deutsch functionary observed.

“If it is not a crime, why is this Dutourd”-Atvar pronounced the Big Ugly’s name as best he could-“in a Deutsch prison?”

“Why?” The official’s face twisted into the expression that showed amusement. “He is in our prison because we say he ought to be there. We need no more reason than that. The Reich does not propose to let anyone who might be dangerous to it run around loose causing trouble.”

That made a certain amount of sense to Atvar: more sense than the bizarre and self-destructive policies of the snoutcounting Americans, at any rate. The fleetlord let out an angry hiss, anger directed at himself. If a Deutsch policy made sense to him, something had to be wrong with the policy or with him or with both.

He said, “I assure you, the Race will punish this smuggler as he deserves. You need have no doubts on that score.”

“You of the Race hardly know what punishment is,” the Big Ugly replied. “We will keep this male for ourselves. We do know these things. We know them in detail.” Though he spoke the language of the Race, gloating anticipation that seemed unique to the Tosevites filled his voice.

Atvar suppressed a shudder. The Big Uglies, and especially the Deutsch Big Uglies, exulted in the ferocity of the punishments they meted out. The fleetlord forced himself not to dwell on that, but to concentrate on the business at hand. This male had refused to release Dutourd, but had not said a word about the other prisoners. “Very well, then-you may keep this smuggler,” Atvar said. “But turn over to us the two American Tosevites, and also the British Jew, Goldfarb. They did not come to your territory with the intent of harming you.”

He hoped that wasn’t true of Auerbach and Summers, but could not be sure, and it made a good bargaining point. He hated having to try to get a Tosevite’s leave to obtain his desires. He hated even more the idea of having to admit that a Tosevite not-empire had territory to which it was entitled. And he hoped mentioning that Goldfarb was a Jew wouldn’t get Moishe Russie’s relative liquidated out of hand. He thought as well of Russie as he did of any Tosevite.

“If you want the Americans, Exalted Fleetlord, you are welcome to them,” the Deutsch official said. “We have no use for them, and giving them to you will help embarrass the United States. As for the Jew… You know that we aim to keep the Reich free of his kind.”

“Yes, I know that,” Atvar said, and did his best not to let his disgust with the policy the Deutsche pursued show. “If you removed him from your not-empire by sending him here to me, you would be keeping your not-empire as free of Jews as if you killed him.”

“He could still cause trouble for the Reich if we let him live,” the Big Ugly replied. “And the British would care very little about what happened to him: they are slowly coming round to our way of thinking.” But he did not reject the fleetlord’s request out of hand, as he might have-as Tosevites often seemed to take a perverse pleasure in doing.

Noting that, Atvar said, “If you kill him, the Race will care, whether the British Big Uglies do or not. Do you understand me?”

The Deutsch Big Ugly used his short, blunt, forkless tongue to lick his lips. That was a sign of cautious consideration among the Big Uglies, or so researchers had assured Atvar. After a pause, the official said, “You are taking an improperly high-handed attitude, Exalted Fleetlord.” Atvar said nothing. The Big Ugly licked his lips again. He made a fist and slammed it down onto the top of the desk behind which he sat. In any species, that would have been a sign of anger. “Very well,” he snapped. “Since you love Jews so well, you may have this one, too.”

Time had proved it was useless to point out that the Race did not particularly love Jews, that their Tosevite neighbors treated them so badly as to make the Race seem a better alternative. Since the Deutsche seemed unable to figure that out for themselves, Atvar had no interest in enlightening them. The fleetlord contented himself with saying, “I thank you. My subordinates will arrange to retrieve this Tosevite.”

“If he should ever enter the Reich again, he will be sorry he was ever hatched,” the Deutsch male said, which had to translate a Tosevite idiom all too literally into the language of the Race. “Farewell.” The Big Ugly’s image disappeared.

No male or female of the Race would have been so rude to Atvar. Big Uglies, though, had already proved they could be far ruder than this. The fleetlord telephoned Moishe Russie. “It is accomplished,” he said when the connection was made. “Your relative will in due course be returned to you.”

“I thank you, Exalted Fleetlord.” Russie added an emphatic cough.

“You are welcome,” Atvar said. Maybe Russie did not know this Big Ugly named Goldfarb had been involved in the ginger-smuggling trade-or more likely, maybe he did not know Atvar would know. But know the fleetlord did. And he also knew he would do everything he could to learn as much about the trade as Goldfarb could or would tell him.

“He should be here any minute now,” Dr. Moishe Russie said, peering out through one of the narrow windows that gave a view of the street.

“Father, you’ve been saying that for the past hour,” Reuven Russie pointed out with such patience as he could muster.

“The Nazis are punctual,” his father said. “The Lizards are also punctual. So I ought to know when he will be here.”