“Perhaps not,” the driver replied. “But the Race may well be monitoring your telephone line, and Yeager’s. I would be, were I a male from the conquest fleet’s intelligence service.” Straha hissed unhappily; his driver made a good point. The Big Ugly went on, “And we still do not know at whom the miscreants were shooting when you visited Yeager’s house while the Chinese females were also there. It could have been them. It could have been Yeager. But it could also have been you, Shiplord.”
“Me?” Straha swung both eye turrets sharply toward the driver: such was his surprise. “I assumed those females were the targets. The Race is not in the habit of using assassination as a weapon.”
“The Race has picked up all sorts of bad habits since coming to Tosev 3,” his driver answered. To compound his insolence, the Tosevite bent his head over one hand and pretended to taste ginger.
But what he said, while it held enough truth to be infuriating, did not hold enough to be convincing. “I am not involved in the ginger trade, except as one more male who tastes,” Straha said. “And, since you are giving forth with nonsense, who would want to murder Yeager, and why?”
“Who would want to kill Yeager?” Straha’s driver echoed. “Someone who got tired of his habit of sticking his snout where it does not belong, that is who. I assure you, he has made enemies doing so.”
“And are you one of those enemies?” the ex-shiplord asked. “You certainly speak as if you have considerable knowledge of them.”
I shall have to find some way to warn Sam Yeager, Straha thought. Yeager had always behaved in a proper manner toward him. Like any well-trained male of the Race, Straha understood that loyalty from below created obligations in those above. Yeager had left Straha in his debt, and debt required repayment.
“In some ways, at some time, I may be an enemy of Yeager’s,” the driver answered evenly. “I had nothing to do with the shots fired at his home, however. Indeed, if you will recall, I shot at the shooters.”
“Yes, I do recall,” Straha said, wondering if the driver had opened fire to make himself appear innocent.
“All things considered, I still believe the attack was most likely aimed at the Chinese females,” the Big Ugly said. “An assault on you or on Yeager would have been better planned and would also have been more likely to succeed.”
“You so relieve my mind.” Straha’s voice was dry.
“I am so happy to hear it.” So was his driver’s. Straha would have taken most Tosevites literally. With this one, he knew better. The driver continued, “It is, however, one more reason for you not to telephone Yeager.”
“It may be, if what you say is truth,” Straha said. “You have not proved that; you have only mentioned it as a possibility.”
The driver sighed. “Shiplord, is this your day to be particularly difficult?”
“Perhaps it is,” Straha answered. “And perhaps we can compromise. At a time convenient to Sam Yeager, will you drive me to his house, so we can discuss these things without fretting over insecure telephone lines?”
“It shall be done,” the Tosevite said, and sighed again. He was not happy about Straha’s request, but evidently saw no way to evade it. Gradually, over the long years of his exile, the ex-shiplord had come to learn the subtleties of the Big Uglies’ responses. When setting out for Tosev 3, he hadn’t imagined such knowledge would be useful-but then, the Race hadn’t imagined a great many things about Tosev 3.
Since his driver was also in some measure his keeper, and was his link to the Tosevite authorities of the United States, Straha decided conciliation might be a wise course. “Will you eat with me?” he asked: that was an amicable gesture among the Big Uglies, as it was among the Race. “I have some zisuili chops defrosting in the kitchen.”
“Will they poison me?” the driver asked.
“I doubt it,” Straha answered. “Few Tosevite foods have proved poisonous to us.” He thought of ginger. “And sometimes, when they do poison us, we enjoy it.”
“Even so, Shiplord, I think I will decline,” the Tosevite said. “I have not found appetizing the odors that come from your meats.”
“No?” Straha shrugged, then thought on how best to manipulate Big Uglies, particularly the males of the species. “If you have not the courage to try new things, I will enjoy a larger meal of my own.”
In due course, he and the driver sat down at the table together. The Tosevite ate a small bite of zisuili meat, then paused in thought of his own. “Not so bad,” he said at last. “Are all your meats as salty as this, though?”
“Yes,” Straha answered. “To us, as you well know, uncured Tosevite meats seem unpleasantly bland. More potato chips?”
“I thank you, but no,” the driver said. “I will make do with what I have here.” He did dutifully finish the portion Straha had given him. When he was through, he gathered up his dishes and Straha’s and began to wash them.
Having an intelligent being perform such a service for Straha took him back to the most ancient days of the Race. Most of the time, he would have reckoned it a reversion to barbarism. This once, he found it no less than his due.
Vyacheslav Molotov’s secretary stuck his head into the Kremlin office Molotov most commonly used. “Comrade General Secretary, the ambassador from the Race has arrived,” the fellow said.
“Thank you for informing me, Pytor Maksimovich,” Molotov answered. He had no great desire to see Queek, but could hardly refuse his request for an interview. “Tell him I shall be there directly.” The secretary hurried away. Molotov nodded to himself as he rose. If he found an interview with Queek unpleasant, he was determined that the Lizard should not enjoy it, either.
Having promised to come at once, he deliberately took his time in walking to the office where the ambassador and his interpreter waited. Queek sat impassively, but the Pole who did his talking for him sent Molotov a dirty look. The general secretary savored that, as he would have savored a particularly delicate tea.
“To business,” he said, as if he had not delayed at all. “I must tell you that the peace-loving peasants and workers of the Soviet Union again reject out of hand the invidious assertions the Race has made in regard to our alleged collaboration with the freedom-loving peoples of those parts of the world you now occupy.”
Queek spoke at some length. The interpreter summed up his first couple of hissing sentences in one word: “Nichevo.”
“It doesn’t matter, eh?” Molotov said. “In that case, why did your principal demand this meeting?”
After the interpreter had done his job, Queek spoke again. The Pole turned his words into Russian: “I wanted to inform you personally that Peking is once more in the hands of the Race. This effectively brings to an end the rebellion the Soviet Union fomented and abetted.”
“I deny fomenting the rebellion of the freedom-loving Chinese people and their People’s Liberation Army,” Molotov answered-truthfully, for Mao would have risen up against the Lizards without any encouragement from Moscow. “And I also deny assisting the rebellion in any way.” That was a great thumping lie, but the Race had never-quite-been able to prove it.
Unusually, Queek didn’t try to prove it now. He just said, “Your claims are noted. They are also, as I say, irrelevant. China is ours. China will remain ours. The same applies farther west on the main continental mass. Our cities in that region do not suffer to any great degree despite the damage inflicted on the seaside desalination plants thereabouts.”
“We had nothing to do with that damage, either,” Molotov said. That wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie, either. The Soviet Union did smuggle arms down into the Middle East, but the locals there used them as they saw fit, not as the USSR desired. Mao was a nationalist, but he was also a Communist. The Arabs and Persians hated Moscow’s ideology almost as much as they hated the Race.