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“I hope so,” Molotov said. “Considering the adventurism your government has displayed up to this point, though, I would not bet any sizable sum on that, however. Perhaps you had better go attend to it at once-unless, that is, you have any less reckless proposals to lay on the table before me.”
“I have made the proposal I came here to make,” Schmidt said. He rose, bowed, and took his leave.
Molotov’s secretary looked into the office. “Your next appointment, Comrade General Secretary, is-”
“I don’t care who it is,” Molotov said. “I need to consult the foreign commissar. Have Comrade Gromyko come here at once.”
“But it’s Marshal Zhukov!” the secretary wailed.
“I don’t care,” Molotov repeated, though he cared very much. But he had to do this for the safety of the country. “Give him my regrets, say the matter is urgent, and tell him I will see him as soon as it is convenient. Go on, Pyotr Maksimovich. He won’t eat you.” Though if he is unhappy enough, he may eat me.
By the look on the secretary’s face, he was thinking the same thing. But he said, “Very well, Comrade General Secretary,” and disappeared. Molotov might not be more powerful than Zhukov-he feared he wasn’t-but he could still tell his secretary what to do. Silently, he cursed Lavrenti Beria. If the NKVD chief hadn’t tried to overthrow him, he wouldn’t be beholden to the Red Army now.
But Zhukov didn’t choose to eat Molotov, at least not then. And Gromyko got to the Soviet leader’s office inside ten minutes. Without preamble, the foreign commissar said, “And what has gone wrong now?”
Molotov appreciated Gromyko’s style, not least because it came so close to matching his own. “I will tell you what has gone wrong, Andrei Andreyevich,” he said, and recounted the exchange he’d just had with Paul Schmidt.
“Bozhemoi!” Gromyko exclaimed when he was through. “The fascists are serious about this?”
“I would say so, yes, unless they are merely trying to lure us to our own destruction,” Molotov answered. “But surely even the Nazis could not reckon us so naive. My question for you is, how do we respond, beyond rejecting the proposal?”
“One obvious thing we could do is tell the Lizards what the Reich has in mind,” Gromyko said.
“We could indeed do that. Whether we should is one of the things I wanted to ask you,” Molotov said. “The question, of course, is whether the Lizards would believe us. We and the Germans spend a good deal of time spreading misinformation about each other. That could prove a nuisance now.”
“So it could,” the foreign commissar agreed. “But I think that, in this case, the effort would be worthwhile. The Nazis are surely contemplating the use of nuclear weapons here: they could not hope to conquer Poland without them. This is not a trivial matter.”
“No, indeed,” Molotov replied. “I warned Schmidt about what Queek has told me: that the Race may seek to exterminate mankind if we present a large enough danger to them.”
“And how did he respond?” Gromyko inquired.
“With surprise,” Molotov answered. “But who can truly say what goes on inside a German’s head? Who can truly say if anything goes on in a German’s head? Your view is that we should inform the Race?”
“Yes, I think so,” Gromyko replied. “I think we should also be conspicuous about not moving troops into areas near Lizard-held Poland. They must not think we are trying to deceive them and preparing our own surprise attack.”
“A distinct point, and one I shall have to raise with Marshal Zhukov,” Molotov said. And if he fusses, I will ask him how well prepared he is for a nuclear exchange with the Lizards. With a little luck, I may be able to begin to exert a little control over the Red Army after all. He nodded to Gromyko. The foreign commissar nodded back, and even managed something of a smile. He probably knew what was on Molotov’s mind.
“I really do not see why you require my presence here, superior sir,” Felless said to Veffani as the motorcar that carried them pulled up in front of the residence the not-emperor of the Greater German Reich used as his own.
The Race’s ambassador to the Reich turned an eye turret toward her. “Because he is a Tosevite,” Veffani answered. “Because you are alleged to be an expert on Tosevites. I want your views on what he says and on how he says it.”
“And you want to continue punishing me for the incident in your conference room,” Felless added.
Veffani was unabashed. “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Count yourself lucky that I let you remove the green bands denoting punishment: I do not wish to advertise your disgrace to the Deutsche. Now come with me. The matter over which we visit the Deutsch not-emperor is, or at least has the possibility of being, of considerable importance.”
“It shall be done,” Felless said miserably, and got out of the heated motorcar and into the chilly atmosphere that passed for summer in Nuremberg.
Up the stairs she went. The not-emperor’s residence, like most official architecture in the capital of the Reich, was on a scale designed to dwarf even Big Uglies, to make them feel insignificant when measured against the power of their leaders. It trivialized males and females of the Race even more effectively. So did the immensely tall Deutsch sentries at the head of the stairs.
A shorter, unarmed Big Ugly stood between the sentries. “I greet you,” he said in the language of the Race, and favored Veffani with the posture of respect. “And your colleague is…?”
“Senior Researcher Felless,” Veffani answered.
“Very well,” the Deutsch male said, and inclined his head to Felless. “I am Johannes Stark, Senior Researcher. I shall interpret for you with the Reichs Chancellor. He will be able to see you shortly.”
“He should see me now,” Veffani said. “This is the time set for our appointment.”
“The meeting he is currently attending is running long, the Big Ugly said.
“Delay is an insult,” Felless said.
Stark shrugged. “Come with me. I will take you to an antechamber where you can make yourselves comfortable.”
Felless
doubted she would be able to make herself comfortable in any Tosevite building, and she proved right. The chamber was chilly. The seats in it were made for Big Uglies, not for the Race. A servant did come in with refreshments, but they tasted nasty. Felless endured. What choice had she?
After what seemed like forever, the Big Ugly named Stark returned and said, “The Reichs Chancellor will see you now. Please follow me.”
The Big Ugly named Himmler sat behind a desk so large, a starship might have landed on it. On one wall of his office was an enormous hooked and tilted cross, the emblem of his faction. On the other wall hung an equally enormous portrait of another Tosevite, this one with the hair on his upper lip cut in a pattern different from the one Himmler chose. Felless gathered that was his predecessor as not-emperor of the Reich.
Against all that immensity, Himmler himself seemed strangely shrunken. Even for a Big Ugly, he was unprepossessing, with a round, flat, soft-fleshed face with corrective lenses in front of his immobile eyes. He spoke in the guttural language the Deutsche used among themselves. Johannes Stark translated: “The Reichs Chancellor greets you and inquires why you have requested this meeting.”
“I greet him as well,” Veffani said. “I asked to see him to warn him and to warn this whole not-empire against taking any course that would jeopardize the long-standing truce on Tosev 3.”
Stark translated that, too. Felless wished she had some ginger. It would have made time pass more quickly. Of course, it would also have made Veffani mate with her on the spot, which might have entertained the Tosevites but would not have advanced diplomacy. Listening to Himmler and the interpreter drone on in their own language made it hard for her to care. At least she wouldn’t have been bored.
Himmler said, “On behalf of the Reich, I must tell you that I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“On behalf of the Race, I must tell you that that had better be so,” Veffani answered. “Any movement against Poland, any attack on Poland, will lead at once to the harshest and most stringent retaliation.”
