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“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.
“Your rockets called Katyushas were among the weapons employed against the desalination plants,” Queek said.
“Katyushas have been in production for more than twenty years,” Molotov said blandly. “Many were captured by the fascists in their invasion of the Soviet Union, and others by the Race. These weapons are also widely imitated.”
“You always have excuses and denials,” Queek said. “Do you wonder that the Race has trouble taking them seriously?”
“What I have is a complaint, and the Race had better take it seriously,” Molotov said-he was indeed intent on making sure Queek went away unhappy.
“We shall treat it with the seriousness it deserves, whatever that proves to be,” the Lizard answered. “I do find it intriguing that this not-empire, the cause of so many complaints, is now issuing one. Say on. I hope you intend no frivolity.”
“None whatsoever,” said Molotov, to whom frivolity was as alien as satyriasis. The ironic style Queek affected was also the one he preferred; he flattered himself that he was better at it than the Lizard. He went on, “My complaint-the Soviet Union’s complaint-is that your alien domestic animals have begun straying from the border regions of the territory you occupy into land unquestionably under the jurisdiction of the Soviet Union. I demand that the Race do everything in its power to curb these incursions, and that you pay compensation for damage to our crops and livestock.”
“Animals, unfortunately, know nothing of political borders. They go where they can find food,” Queek said. “We shall have no complaints if you drive them back over the frontier. We shall also have no complaints if you slay them when you find them on your territory. Compensation for damages does not strike me as unreasonable, provided your claims are not exorbitant.”
It was a softer answer than Molotov had expected, and so one that left him disappointed. He said, “Some of your beasts are devouring the crops that will yield the bread that feeds the Soviet people. Others kill chickens and ducks, and have even been known to kill cats and dogs as well.”
The translation took a little while; Molotov guessed that the interpreter had to explain to the Lizard what sort of animals he was talking about. Finally, Queek said, “You would be referring to befflem, I suppose, in the matter of your livestock, befflem and possibly tsiongyu.”
Molotov cared very little about the Race’s names for its annoying creatures. He was about to say as much, but checked himself. Queek would surely respond that the names of proper Earthly animals did not matter to him, either. Forestalling an opponent could be as important as counterattacking after a sally. The Soviet leader contented himself with observing, “Whatever else these creatures may be, they are pests, and they will be exterminated from Soviet soil.”
“I wish you good fortune in your efforts along those lines,” Queek said: yes, he did have a sardonic turn of phrase. “The Race has been making similar efforts since long before the establishment of the Empire. Some few have been partially successful. Most, however, were undoubted failures.”
Molotov studied the Lizard. He reluctantly concluded Queek, despite the sarcasm, was not joking. He thought about feral cats that lived off pigeons and mice and squirrels and such, and about packs of wild dogs that scavenged in the cities and sometimes killed cattle and sheep out in the countryside. “You have released a new plague on us, you are telling me,” he said.
Queek shrugged after that was translated. “You have your domestic animals, and we have ours. They have accompanied us as the Empire has grown. We see no reason why Tosev 3 should be different from any other world in this regard.”
“You have not conquered us, as you conquered these other worlds,” Molotov said. “Your animals have no business on our soil.”
“I repeat: we are willing to discuss reasonable compensation,” the ambassador from the Race said. “But I also repeat that you are unreasonable if you expect us to keep perfect control over all o
ur animals at all times. I am certain your own not-empire is unable to do this, so why do you assume we can?”
For that, Molotov found no good answer. He shifted his ground: “It appears to me that you are seeking to win through environmental change what you could not win at the battlefield or at the negotiating table.”
“Our intention is to colonize this world. We have never said otherwise,” Queek replied. “We are not at war with the Soviet Union or with any other independent Tosevite not-empire, but we do hope and expect to bring all of Tosev 3 into the Empire in the fullness of time.”
