“Sure you were.” Stone grinned at him, there in the privacy of the Lewis and Clark ’s control room. Johnson grinned back. The spaceship’s chief pilot had been through the mill, even if he was an Army Air Force man and not a Marine. He knew the feeling of going out on a mission from which you didn’t expect to come back. He went on, “You don’t know this officially because I don’t know it officially, but we got, uh, discouraged from going on with that.”

“Oh, yeah?” Johnson leaned forward in his seat. “I’m all ears.”

“That’s not what Healey thinks-he figures you’re all mouth and brass balls,” Stone answered with a chuckle. “Anyway, this is all scuttlebutt, and you haven’t heard it from me.” Solemnly, Johnson crossed his heart, which made the number-one pilot laugh out loud. “What I heard is, we did a dry run, with a hot rod under radio control. Whoever was in charge of the beast inched it up to the spy ship, and when it got close enough…”

“Yeah?” Johnson said. “What happened then?” Stone had hooked him, sure as if he’d been telling a hell of a dirty joke.

“Then the damn thing-the spy ship, not the hot rod-broke radio silence, or that’s what they say,” Stone told him. “It sent out a recorded message in the Lizards’ language, something like, ‘You come any closer or do anything cute and we count it as an act of war.’ And so they backed up the hot rod and sent it home, and nobody’s said a word about it since.”

“Is that a fact?” Johnson said.

“Damned if I know,” Stone answered. “But it’s what I’ve heard.”

No wonder Healey isn’t sending for me, Johnson thought. Then something else crossed his mind: I’m damn glad I didn’t open up on the lousy thing.

13

Jonathan Yeager sprawled across his bed, working on the chemistry notes and problems he’d missed because he’d gone into space. Karen sat in the desk chair a couple of feet away. The bedroom door remained decorously open. That was a house rule. Now that he’d finally turned twenty-one, Jonathan had proposed to his folks that they change it. They’d proposed to him that he keep his mouth shut as long as he lived under their roof.

He pointed to a stretch of Karen’s notes he had trouble following. “What was Dr. Cobb saying about stoichiometry here?”

Karen pulled the chair closer and bent over to see what he was talking about. Her red hair tickled his ear. “Oh, that,” she said, a little sheepishly. “I didn’t quite get that myself.”

He sighed. “Okay, I’ll ask after lecture tomorrow.” He made motions that would have implied tearing his hair if he’d had any hair to tear. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get all caught up, and I was only gone a week.”

“What was it like?” Karen asked. She’d been asking that ever since he got back from Kitty Hawk. He’d tried several different ways of explaining, but none of them satisfied her-or him, really.

After some thought, he took another shot at it: “You’ve read Edgar Rice Burroughs, right?” When Karen nodded, he went on, “You know how the apes raised Tarzan but he still turned out to be a man pretty much like other men?” She nodded again. Jonathan said, “Well, it was nothing like that. I mean, nothing at all. Kassquit looks like a person, but she doesn’t act like a person. She acts just like a Lizard. My dad was right.” He laughed a little; that wasn’t something he said every day. “We just play at being Lizards. She’s not playing. She wishes she had scales-you can tell.”

Karen nodded again, this time thoughtfully. “I can see that, I guess.” She paused, then found a different question, or maybe a different version of the same one: “How did it feel, talking about important things with a woman who wasn’t wearing any clothes?”

Was that what she’d been getting at all along? Jonathan answered, “For me, it felt funny at first. Kassquit didn’t even think about it, and I tried not to notice-you know what I mean?” He’d tried; he hadn’t succeeded too well. Not wanting to admit as much, he added, “I think it flustered my dad worse than it did me.”

“That’s how it works for people that old,” she agreed with careless cruelty. Jonathan felt he’d passed an obscure test. He’d been attracted to Liu Mei when she visited Los Angeles, so now Karen was nervous about every female he met. Here, he thought she was wasting worry. UCLA boasted tons of pretty girls, all of them far more accessible and far more like him than one raised by aliens who’d spent her whole life on a starship.

Interesting, now-Kassquit was certainly interesting. Fascinating, even. But attractive? He’d seen all of her, every bit; she was no more shy of herself than a Lizard was. He shook his head. No, he didn’t think so.

“What?” Karen asked.

Before Jonathan could answer, one of the Lizard hatchlings skittered down the hall. He stopped in the doorway, his eye turrets swinging from Jonathan to Karen and back again. They lingered longer on Karen, not because the hatchling found her attractive-a really preposterous notion-but because he saw her less often. Jonathan waved. “Hello, Donald,” he called.

Donald waved back. He and Mickey had got good at gestures, though the sounds they made were nothing but hissing babbles.

“I greet you,” Karen called to him in the language of the Race.

He stared at her as if he’d never heard such noises before. And, except from himself and Mickey, he hadn’t. “Don’t do that,” Jonathan told Karen. “My dad would go through the roof if he heard you. We’re supposed to raise them like people, not like Lizards. When they learn to talk, they’ll learn English.”

“Okay. I’m sorry,” Karen said. “I knew that, but I forgot. When I see a Lizard, I want to talk Lizard talk.”

“Mickey and Donald won’t be Lizards, any more than Kassquit is really a person,” Jonathan said. Then he paused. “Still and all, I think there’s a little part of her that wants to be a person, even if she doesn’t know how.”

Karen didn’t want him talking about Kassquit any more. She made a point of changing the subject. She made a literal point: pointing at Donald, she said, “He sure is getting big.”

“I know,” Jonathan said. “He and Mickey are an awful lot bigger than human one-year-olds would be.” His mother would have flayed him if he’d said Mickey and him. However he said it, it was true. The baby Lizards weren’t babies any more, not to look at they weren’t. They’d grown almost as if inflated by CO2 cartridges, and were closer in size to adult Lizards than to what they’d been when they came out of their eggs.

Liu Mei never learned to smile. Neither did Kassquit, Jonathan thought. I wonder what sorts of things Mickey and Donald will never be able to do because we’re raising them instead of Lizards. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. And he didn’t feel like broaching the subject to Karen, not when she plainly didn’t want him thinking about Liu Mei or Kassquit.

After another wave, Donald scurried back up the hall. Karen said, “I wonder why they grow so much faster than people do.”

“Dad says it’s because they take care of themselves so much more than human babies do,” Jonathan answered. “If you’re on your own, the bigger you are, the fewer the things that can eat you and the more things you can eat.”

“That sounds like it makes pretty good sense,” Karen said. Jonathan automatically turned that like to as if in his mind. Karen was lucky enough not to have parents who got up in arms over grammar.

With a grin, he said, “Yeah, I know, but it’s liable to be true anyhow.” Karen started to nod, then noticed what he’d said and made a face. He made one back at her. With the air of somebody granting a great concession, he went on, “The things Dad says usually make pretty good sense.”

“I know,” Karen said. “You’re so lucky. At least your parents know we’re living in the twentieth century. My folks think we’re still back in horse-and-buggy days. Or if they don’t think so, they wish we were.”