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“I deny that the Greater German Reich intends any attack on Poland,” Himmler said.
“Do you deny proposing to the SSSR a joint attack on Poland, your two not-empires to divide the region between you?” Veffani asked.
“Of course I do,” the Big Ugly replied.
Felless spoke up: “But you would deny it whether it was true or not, because it is in your interest to do so. Why should the Race take your denials seriously?”
Behind the corrective lenses, Himmler’s eyes swung her way. She had dealt with him before, but not often. Only now did she get the strong impression that his stare said he wished she were dead, and also that he wished he could arrange her death. Considering the policies of the Reich, he doubtless meant that literally. Had she been subject to his whimsy, she would have been terrified. Even as things were, that measuring gaze disturbed her.
“I repeat: I deny it,” Himmler said. “And I speak the truth when I tell you this.” His features moved very little as he spoke; for a Big Ugly, he showed scant visible expression.
“Do you also deny troop movements toward the frontier between the Reich and Poland have taken place?” Veffani demanded.
“I do not deny that there have been such movements, no,” Himmler said. “I deny that there is anything in the least aggressive about them, however. The Wehrmacht and the Waffen-SS conduct exercises as best suits them.”
“They would be well advised-very well advised-to conduct them elsewhere in the Reich,” Veffani said.
“You cannot give me orders,” Himmler said. “The Reich is a sovereign and independent not-empire.”
“I am not giving you orders. I am giving you a warning,” Veffani said. “Here is another one: if you attack Poland, the Race will destroy you.”
“If you attack the Reich, we will also destroy you,” Himmler said. “We can wreck this world, and we will do it.”
“He means what he says, superior sir,” Felless whispered to Veffani. “The ideology of this faction-perhaps of all the Deutsche-is full of images of battle destroying both sides.”
“I also mean what I say,” Veffani answered. He swung his eye turrets back toward the Tosevite leader. “That does not matter. If we are destroyed to ensure your destruction, we shall pay the price.”
“It would be the end for you. Do you not understand that?” Himmler said.
“No, it would not,” Veffani made the negative hand gesture. “It would be a setback for us. It would be an end for us on this world. But the Empire would continue on its other three worlds. For you Tosevites, though, it would indeed be the end. Please carry that thought in your mind at all times.”
“If we could reach your other worlds, you would regret this arrogance and insolence,” Himmler said. “That time may come, and sooner than you think.”
“The better the chance you have of reaching our other worlds, the likelier it is that we will find it necessary to destroy you first,” Felless said.
Indeed, Himmler wished her dead. He said, “We are the master race, and not to be trifled with.”
“We crossed the space between the stars to come to Tosev 3,” Veffani said. “You cannot match that. Who then are the masters?”
Felless thought-hoped-that would make Himmler lose his temper. She had read of the spectacular rages that would seize the not-emperor’s predecessor, and had viewed video of a couple of them. Even across species lines, they were appalling in their intensity and ferocity.
But the present Reichs Chancellor seldom seemed to get very excited about anything. Through his interpreter, he answered, “You have a much longer history than we do. We had almost caught you by the time you came here. We are closer now than we were then. Before long, we shall surpass you. If this is not the mark of the master race, what is?”
His certainty was in its way as frightening as his predecessor’s volcanic wrath. And he raised good points, alarming points. Where would the Tosevites be in a few hundred years? All over the Empire, was the thought that sprang into Felless’ mind. And if they came to Home or to Rabotev 2 or Halless 1, they would come as conquerors. The thought chilled her worse than the weather on Tosev 3.
But Veffani said, “Have you not listened to a word I told you? If you are on the point of becoming a menace to the Empire as a whole rather than merely to this planet, we will destroy you and ourselves here rather than allowing that to happen.”
To Felless’ dismay, Himmler yawned. “By the time you perceive the threat, you will not be able to destroy it. We will have gone too far ahead of you by then. You of the Race had best bear that in mind and behave accordingly. Your time is passing away. Ours is coming.”
Before Veffani could speak, Felless did: “Then the best thing we could do would be to destroy you now, while you cannot hope to prevent us from doing it.”
That got through to the Big Ugly. Himmler fixed her with a glare that warned he did know rages like his predecessor’s, even if he didn’t show them on the outside. He said, “If you try, we shall have our vengeance on you.”
“And yet, despite your knowledge of the ruin that would fall on your not-empire, you planned an attack against the Race,” Veffani said. “You need to consider very carefully the likely consequences of your actions.”
“I have already denied your allegations,” Himmler said. “I deny them again.” But his tone when he spoke his own language carried no conviction, and neither did the interpreter’s in the language of the Race.
“See that your denial becomes and remains a truth,” Veffani said, rising from the uncomfortable Tosevite chair. He assumed the posture of respect, then straightened. “I bid you farewell.” He left the Reichs Chancellor’s office, Felless following him.
“Will he listen?” Felless asked when they had returned to the comfortably heated motorcar and begun the return journey to the Race’s embassy.
“Who can say? You are the expert on Big Uglies,” Veffani replied, which was disingenuous; having come to this world with the conquest fleet, he had more experience with Tosevites than she did. But then he went on, “You did well there, Senior Researcher. Your remarks to me were germane, and, while you irked Himmler, you did so without attempting to be deliberately inflammatory.”
“I thank you, superior sir,” Felless answered. “What point to being inflammatory? You would not let me leave even if I were.”
“High time you begin to realize such things,” Veffani said in what sounded more like approval than anything she’d heard from him since disgracing herself with him and the visiting males from Cairo. Maybe his measured praise should have made her pleased at doing her duties well. To a degree, it did. But thinking about her disgrace also made her think about how much she wanted another taste of ginger.
“I greet you.” Gorppet waved to a female walking down a Baghdad street toward one of the markets that had recently been declared safe for the Race once more. “How would you like a taste of ginger?”
He felt like mating, even though it wasn’t the proper season. Here and there in Baghdad, females had been tasting ginger. He could smell the pheromones: not strongly enough to drive him into a frenzy, but enough to leave an itch at the back of his mind, almost like the itch he had for ginger. Maybe that was the way Big Uglies worked all the time.
Whether it was or not, though, it wasn’t the way the female worked. “I do not use that illegal herb,” she declared, and went on her way with her tailstump quivering in indignation.
“A pestilence take her,” Betvoss muttered. He raised his voice and called, “Your pheromones probably stink, anyhow!” The female’s tailstump quivered harder, but she did not turn back.
Gorppet laughed. “There you go.” This time, he was glad to see Betvoss disagreeable, because the other male’s venom wasn’t aimed at him.
Betvoss said, “I hope the Big Uglies in the marketplace cheat her out of all her money.”
“So do I,” Gorppet said. His eye turrets hadn’t once stopped their wary swiveling, even while he was talking to
the female. He wasn’t sure how much good it would do; swaddled in robes as they were, the local Big Uglies had little trouble concealing weapons. Still… “I would rather patrol the marketplace than collect coins at a house of superstition.” He used an emphatic cough.
“Truth!” Betvoss used another one. “That is one duty I too am just as well pleased to escape. Here in the marketplace, at least, I am a moving target.”
