“I understand. I shall see to it.” Bunim turned one eye turret toward a chronometer. “And now, if you will excuse me, I also have other things to see to…”
“Of course, superior sir.” Nesseref left Bunim’s office, and also left the building housing it. Having been in the hands of the Race since shortly after the arrival of the conquest fleet, it suited her kind about as well as a building originally put up by Big Uglies could. When she went outside, into the cold of the Bialut Market Square, she found herself back in a different world.
Even Tosevites had to wear layer upon layer of wrappings to protect themselves from their own planet’s weather. That didn’t deter them from gathering in large numbers to buy and sell. Foods of all sorts were on display (no, almost all sorts, for this was a market full of Jews, and so held no pork, which was to Nesseref’s way of thinking most regrettable). So were more of the Big Uglies’ wrappings. So were pots and pans and plates and the curious implements the Tosevites used to feed themselves.
And so were a good many items obviously manufactured by the Race. Nesseref wondered how they’d got there. She wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to learn it was through no legitimate means. The window in Bunim’s office overlooked the market square. She wondered if the regional subadministrator or his subordinates paid any attention to the commerce the Big Uglies were conducting right under their snouts. Then she wondered if the Tosevites quietly paid some of those subordinates-with ginger, say-to turn their eye turrets in a different direction. She wouldn’t have been surprised about that, either.
Big Uglies were more voluble than males and females of the Race. They shouted and whined and gesticulated and generally acted as if the world would come to an end if bargains didn’t come out exactly the way they wanted them. Their frantic eagerness would have impressed and probably influenced Nesseref. The Tosevites against whom they were dickering, though, were used to such ploys, and took no notice of them-or else they too were shouting and whining and gesticulating.
Someone-a Big Ugly, by the timbre and mushy accent-called her name. She swung an eye turret in the direction from which the sound had struck her hearing diaphragm, and saw a Tosevite approaching, waving as he-she? no, he, by the wrappings and the voice-drew near. A little more slowly than she should have, she recognized him. “I greet you, Mordechai Anielewicz,” she said, annoyed he’d seen and known her first.
“I greet you, Shuttlecraft Pilot,” the Big Ugly said, extending his right hand in the greeting gesture common among his kind. Nesseref took it. His fingers, though large, felt soft and fleshy against hers. They also felt cool; her body temperature was a couple of hundredths higher than his. Speaking the language of the Race pretty well for one of his kind, he went on, “I hope you are well?”
“Well enough, I thank you, though I do not much care for the cold and damp. I am glad spring is coming,” Nesseref replied. She wagged the eye turret with which she was looking at him, as she might have done to commiserate with one of her own kind. “I have heard from the regional subadministrator that you are having a difficult time of it.”
“Why, no, the pains are no worse than-” Anielewicz caught himself. “Oh. You must mean the male with the gun. He missed me. He has not returned since. I do not worry about him… too much.” His hand dropped to the butt of the pistol he wore on his hip.
“Who would wish to kill you?” Nesseref asked.
The Big Ugly’s mouth twisted in the gesture Nesseref had come to associate with amusement, though she didn’t understand why the circumstances should amuse him. “Who?” he said. “The Deutsche, the Poles, the Russkis, perhaps, and perhaps also the regional subadministrator.”
“Bunim?” Nesseref made the negative hand gesture. “Impossible! The Race does not do such things. Besides, he would have mentioned it to me. He spoke of its happening through some agency other than his own.”
“He would not admit to it,” Anielewicz said. “Even if he arranged to have it done, he would not admit it, not to anyone who did not have to know of it.”
“Why not?” Again, Nesseref was puzzled.
Again, the Tosevite smiled. Again, the shuttlecraft pilot could not see any reason to show amusement. As if speaking to a hatchling barely old enough to understand words, Mordechai Anielewicz replied, “Because if he arranged to have it done, and if I found out he had arranged it, I would probably try to kill him in retaliation, and he knows it.”
He spoke, as far as Nesseref could judge, quite calmly. She reckoned him her friend, as far as she could across the lines of species. But he’d just shown her how alien he was. Her shiver had nothing to do with the chilly weather.
Mordechai Anielewicz could tell he’d horrified Nesseref. He didn’t really think Bunim had tried to assassinate him. Had Bunim done so, he wasn’t sure he would try to take revenge by killing the regional subadministrator. Murdering a prominent Lizard was the best way he could think of to land the Jews of Poland in serious trouble. Of course, if what he said got back to Bunim, it might keep the regional subadministrator from coming up with any bright ideas. He hoped it would.
“And how is your explosive-metal bomb?” Nesseref asked him casually.
Not for the first time, he wished he’d never mentioned the bomb to her. And now, instead of displaying his amusement, he had to hide it. The shuttlecraft pilot was trying to get information out of him the same way he was trying to give it to her. He answered, “It is very well, thank you. And how is yours?”
“I have none, as you know perfectly well,” Nesseref said. “All I have to worry about is a great deal of liquid hydrogen.”
Back before the invasions of first the Nazis and then the Lizards forced him into war and politics, Anielewicz had studied engineering. He whistled respectfully; he knew a little something about the kinds of problems he might be facing. And, of course, when he thought of hydrogen, he thought of the Hindenburg; the newsreel footage was still vivid in his mind after more than a quarter of a century. The Lizards were a lot more careful than the Germans ever dreamt of being-the Lizards were, in a word, inhumanly careful-but still…
“How do you make that noise?” Nesseref asked. “I have heard other Tosevites do it, but I cannot see how.”
“What, whistling?” Mordechai asked. The key word came out in Yiddish; if it existed in the Lizards’ language, he didn’t know it. He whistled a few bars. Nesseref made the affirmative hand gesture. He said, “You shape your lips this way…” He started to pucker, then stopped. “Oh.”
Once examined, the problem was simple. Nesseref couldn’t pucker. Her face didn’t work that way. She didn’t even really have lips, only hard edges to her mouth. She could no more whistle than Anielewicz could perfectly produce all the hisses and pops and sneezing noises that went into her language. She realized that at about the same time he did, and let her mouth fall open in a laugh. “I see now,” she said. “It is impossible for one of my kind.”
“I fear that is truth,” Anielewicz agreed. “I also fear I must shop now, or my wife”-another Yiddish word, another concept missing from the language of the Race-“will be very unhappy with me.” He used an emphatic cough to show just how unhappy Bertha would be.
“Farewell, then,” Nesseref told him. “I return to my new town. Perhaps you will visit me there one day.”
“I thank you. I would like that.” Mordechai meant it. Regardless of what they thought of the weather, lots of Lizards were colonizing Poland. He was very curious about how they lived.
But, as Nesseref went about her business, Anielewicz realized he had to go about his. Bertha would indeed be unhappy if he came home without the things she’d sent him to buy. Cabbage was easy. Several vendors were selling it; he had only to choose the one with the best price. Potatoes didn’t prove any great problem, either. And he got a deal on onions that would make his wife smile.