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But he did have good food. Straha tried the ssefenji next: a grainier, tougher meat then azwaca, and less sweet to the tongue. He didn’t like it so well, but it too was a taste of Home. And it turned out to go very well with cashews. Straha walked back into the house to get some more nuts, and filled up his glass of rum while he was there.
He glanced out the kitchen window. There sat his driver in the motorcar, looking, as best Straha could tell, bored. But the Big Ugly was in fact alert; Straha had never known him when he wasn’t alert. Seeing Straha in the window, he waved and saluted. Not many Tosevites could have recognized the ex-shiplord from such a brief glance, but he did. Straha waved back, in grudging but genuine respect.
Then he headed outside once more for another helping of ssefenji ribs. He caught Sam Yeager’s eye again. “And how is the Tosevite raised by the Race?” he asked.
“Well enough,” Yeager answered. “My hatchling and I spoke with her again, not so long ago, and with video this time. She would be a very attractive female, did she not shave off all her hair-and were her face more lively, of course.”
“Attractive? How could you judge over the telephone?” Before Yeager could answer, Straha did it for him: “Never mind. I forgot that you Big Uglies judge such matters as much by sight as by odor.”
“More by sight, I would say,” Yeager answered.
“Our females are the same, in judging a male’s mating display, but with males it is a matter of scent.” Straha looked for a way to change the subject; when not incited by pheromones, he did not care to discuss matters pertaining to mating. Having seen his driver put a new thought in his mind: “Are you aware that you have made enemies by poking your snout into places where it is not welcome? I quote someone in a position to know whereof he speaks.”
“I bet I can guess who he is, too,” Yeager said. Straha neither confirmed nor denied that. The Big Ugly’s laugh was harsh. “Yes, Shiplord, you might say I am aware of that. You just might. I killed a man last week, to keep him from killing me.”
“By the Emperor!” Straha exclaimed. “I did not know that. Why did he want to do such a thing?”
“He is too dead to ask, and his pal escaped,” Yeager answered. “I wish I knew.”
Straha studied him. “Has this incident any connection to the Big Uglies who fired shots at your home last year when the Chinese females and I were visiting?”
“I do not know that, either, and I wish I did,” Sam Yeager said. “As a matter of fact, I was wondering if you ever found out anything more about those Big Uglies.”
“Myself personally? No,” Straha replied. “Assassination is a tactic the Race seldom employs. My driver is of the opinion that the Chinese females were the likeliest targets for the Big Uglies. He is also of the opinion that you may have been a target yourself, this due to your snout-poking tendencies.”
“He is, is he?” Yeager’s mobile mouth narrowed till he seemed to have hardly more in the way of lips than a male of the Race. “Your driver has all sorts of interesting opinions. One of these days, I may have to sit down with him for a good long talk. I might learn a few things.”
“On the other fork of the tongue, you might not,” Straha told him. “He is not in the habit of revealing a great deal. I, for one, am certain he knows a great deal more than he says.”
“That does not sound much like a Big Ugly,” Sam Yeager remarked, and now his mouth stretched wide to show amusement. But his expression quickly became more nearly neutral. “It does sound like a particular kind of Big Ugly-one in the business of intelligence, for instance.”
“Are you surprised at that?” Straha felt an exile’s odd sort of pride. “I am an intelligence resource of some value to your not-empire.”
“Well, so you are, Shiplord. You-” Sam Yeager began.
But Straha stopped listening just then. As had happened before at Ullhass and Ristin’s gatherings, a female from the colonization fleet must have decided to try a taste of ginger, which was legal here in the United States. As soon as her pheromones floated outside, Straha, along with the rest of the males in the back yard, lost interest in everything else. He hurried into the house, hoping for a chance to mate.
When Mordechai Anielewicz came up to the door of his flat, he heard shouting inside. He sighed as he raised his hand to knock on the door. Both Miriam and David were old enough to have strong opinions of their own these days, and young enough to be passionately certain their opinions were the only right and proper ones, those of their parents being idiotic by assumption. No wonder life sometimes got noisy.
He knocked. As he did so, he cocked his head to one side and listened. One eyebrow rose. This wasn’t Miriam or David arguing with his wife. This was Heinrich, and he sounded even more passionate than either of his older siblings was in the habit of doing. Not only was he the youngest, he was also usually the sunniest. What could have made him…?
As David Anielewicz opened the door, Mordechai heard a squeak. It wasn’t a squeak from hinges that wanted oiling. It was much too friendly and endearing for that.
“He didn’t,” Anielewicz exclaimed.
“He sure did,” his older son answered. “He brought it home about an hour ago. Mother’s been trying to make him get rid of it ever since.”
No sooner had Anielewicz shut the door than Heinrich, doing an excellent impersonation of a tornado, dashed up to him shouting, “She said I could keep him! She said if I got one, I could keep him! She said, Father! And now I did, and now she won’t let me.” Tears streaked the tornado’s cheeks-mostly, Mordechai judged, tears of fury.
“Take it easy,” he said. “We’ll talk about it.” Back inside the flat, the beffel squeaked again. It sounded as if it wanted to stay, but who-who human, anyway-could know how a beffel was supposed to sound?
His wife strode into the short entry hall a moment later. It was getting crowded in there, but no one seemed to want to move away. “That thing, that horrible thing, has got to go,” Bertha declared.
“It’s not horrible,” Heinrich said. The beffel let out yet another squeak. It didn’t sound like a horrible thing. It sounded like a squeeze toy. Heinrich went on, “And you said that if I caught one, I could keep him. You did. You did.”
“But I didn’t think you’d really go and do it,” his mother said.
“That doesn’t matter,” Anielewicz said. Bertha looked appalled. Mordechai knew he would hear more-much more-about this later, but he went on, “You didn’t have to make the promise, but you did. Now I’d say you’ve got to keep it.”
Heinrich started
dancing. There wasn’t room for that in the narrow hallway, but he did it anyhow. “I can keep him! I can keep him! I can keep him!” he sang.
Anielewicz took him by the shoulder and forcibly stopped the dance. “You can keep him,” he agreed, ignoring the dismay that still hadn’t left his wife’s face. “You can keep him, as long as you take care of him, and as long as he doesn’t cause trouble. If he makes horrible messes, or if he starts biting people, out he goes on his ear.” Befflem didn’t have ears, but that had nothing to do with anything.
“I promise, Father.” Heinrich’s face shone.
“You have to keep your promise, just like Mother has to keep hers,” Mordechai said, and his son nodded eagerly. He went on, “And even if you do, the beffel goes if he turns out to be a nuisance.”
His younger son nodded again. “He won’t. I know he won’t.” A Biblical prophet listening to the word of God could have spoken no more certainly.
Squeak! Mordechai chuckled. He couldn’t help himself. “Well, let me have a look at this fabulous beast.”
“Come on.” Heinrich grabbed his arm. “He’s great. You’ll see.” He led Mordechai into the front room. The beffel was under the coffee table. One of its eye turrets swiveled toward Anielewicz and his son. It squeaked and trotted toward them. Heinrich beamed. “There! You see? It likes people.”
“Maybe it does at that.” Anielewicz crouched down and held out his hand to the beffel, as he might have to give a strange dog or cat the chance to smell him. He was much more ready to jerk that hand back in a hurry than he would have been with a dog or a cat, though.
But the beffel acted as friendly as it sounded. After one more of those ridiculous squeaks, it stuck out its tongue at him. The end of the long, forked organ, amazingly like a Lizard’s, brushed the back of his hand. The beffel cocked its head to one side, as if trying to decide what to make of something unfamiliar. Then, with yet another squeak, it butted Anielewicz’s leg with its head.
