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That was a different sort of question. It painfully reminded the fleetlord that the intolerable was all too often commonplace on Tosev 3, and that the Race’s policies here had to pay far more not
ice to the Big Uglies’ whims and superstitions than anyone would have imagined possible before the conquest fleet set out from Home. “We have to try to get the bomb back,” Atvar answered. “That much is obvious, but if we fail there, we also have to convince the Deutsche that we did not detonate it.”
“That will be difficult,” his adjutant said. “It also may not help much. The Deutsche dislike the Jews as much as the Jews dislike them.”
“Both those points, unfortunately, are truths,” Atvar said. “And the not-emperor of the Deutsche is sure to blame us for anything the Jews do.” The Big Ugly named Dornberger would have reason to do so, too, but the fleetlord chose not to dwell on that.
“Will you warn the Deutsche this bomb may be on their territory?” Pshing asked. “I gather from the reports that the weapon is anything but inconspicuous.”
“Until we have more definite information, I believe I will keep quiet,” the fleetlord answered. “One more truth is that I would not be altogether dismayed to see the Deutsche punished further, so long as they fail to avenge themselves on us. It is not as if they fail to deserve it.”
“The variable being whether we can escape their vengeance in the aftermath,” Pshing said.
“Yes. The variable,” Atvar agreed. That was a nice, bloodless way to ponder whether thousands or tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands of members of the Race might become radioactive dust on account of the reckless actions of a handful of headstrong Big Uglies. He sighed. No male since the unification of the Empire had had worries even remotely like his.
He skimmed the report again. The occupiers were doing what they could in secret to help the Jews find their missing bomb. How much was that? How secret was it? The report didn’t say. The fleetlord took that as a bad sign.
And then the telephone hissed. “If that is Fleetlord Reffet, tell him I just jumped out the window,” Atvar said to Pshing. “Tell him I have joined the Muslim superstition and am at prayer so I cannot be disturbed. Tell him anything. I do not wish to talk to him now.”
“It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord,” Pshing said, and went off to do it. Atvar was one of the few members of the Race prominent enough to have another individual to block nuisances from him. Most males and females had to make do with electronics. He let out a self-satisfied hiss, enjoying the privilege.
But it turned out not to be the fleetlord of the colonization fleet. Pshing’s image appeared on Atvar’s monitor. “Exalted Fleetlord, it is Senior Science Officer Tsalas,” Atvar’s adjutant said. “He maintains that the matter about which he would speak to you is of some urgency. Shall I put him through?”
“Yes, by all means,” Atvar replied. “Tsalas is not one to start laying eggs out of mating season.” He winced after speaking. That slang expression for getting excited over nothing was perfectly good back on Home, but how much meaning would it have here on Tosev 3 in a few generations if he couldn’t suppress the ginger trade?
Pshing vanished from the screen, to be replaced by an elderly, studious-looking male. “I greet you, Exalted Fleetlord,” Tsalas said.
“And I greet you, Senior Science Officer,” Atvar replied. “My adjutant tells me something urgent has come up. What is it?” He wondered if he really wanted to know. Urgent matters on Tosev 3 spelled trouble more often than not.
But Tsalas made the affirmative gesture. Atvar braced himself for the worst. It didn’t come, at least not right away. The science officer said, “You will have been advised of the large meteoric impact on Tosev 4 not long ago?”
“Oh, yes.” Atvar used the affirmative gesture, too. “This solar system, by everything I have been able to gather, is much more untidy than that of Home. It seems a fitting place to have hatched the Big Uglies.”
Tsalas laughed. “That no doubt holds a good deal of truth, Exalted Fleetlord. But there are data to suggest that this impact was not altogether the result of chance.”
“I do not understand,” Atvar said. “What else could it have been?”
“None of our probes out in the belt of minor planets between Tosev 4 and Tosev 5 noticed anything out of the ordinary among the American Big Uglies working there,” the science officer said. “But a new probe traveling toward that belt had its forward camera operating, and caught… this.”
His face vanished, to be replaced by a view of space and stars. Off to the right of the screen, a new star, not very bright, suddenly came to life. After Atvar watched it for a little while, he saw that it was moving against the stars in the background. “That is a rocket motor!” he exclaimed.
The display winked out. Tsalas reappeared. “Truth, Exalted Fleetlord,” he said. “That is a rocket motor, and one of considerable power, or the probe would not have noticed it at such a long distance. I sped up the video for you to help you grasp its nature more quickly.”
“But what motor is it?” the fleetlord asked. “It cannot belong to either of the two American spaceships now in the belt of minor planets, or the probes already there would have seen this burn. What are the Big Uglies doing?”
“I am not certain,” Tsalas replied. “No one is certain-no one not an American Tosevite, at any rate. But it seems likely that the motor accelerated a good-sized chunk of rock from its normal orbit among the minor planets and toward the more inward regions of this solar system. It seems likely, in fact, that our outbound probe happened to catch the launch of this chunk of rock toward its eventual collision with Tosev 4.”
“But Tosev 4 is an utterly worthless world,” Atvar said. “Why would anyone, even Big Uglies, be so addled as to bombard it with meteors?”
“Perhaps,” Tsalas said gently, “to give them practice in hitting other, more inherently valuable, targets.”
That needed a moment to sink in. When it did, Atvar let out a hiss of unadulterated horror. “You are telling me that they could bombard us here on Tosev 3 from out in the belt of minor planets,” he said.
“I believe so, yes, Exalted Fleetlord.” Tsalas sounded no happier than Atvar felt. “I apologize for not bringing this to your notice sooner. Connecting several apparently unrelated pieces of data took longer than it should have. On the other fork of the tongue, perhaps we should count ourselves lucky that the connection was made at all. The American Tosevites plainly intended to keep it secret from us.”
“Yes. Plainly,” Atvar said. “And we shall have to see about that, too. Indeed we shall. I thank you, Senior Science Officer. I believe you may well have done the Race a great service.” He listened with some small part of one hearing diaphragm to Tsalas’ thanks, then broke the connection and shouted, “Pshing!”
His adjutant rushed into the office. “What is it, Exalted Fleetlord?”
“Summon the American ambassador to me this instant. This instant, do you hear?” Atvar said. “I do not care what that Big Ugly is doing. I do not care if he is eating. I do not care if he is mating. I do not care if he is standing in front of a mirror and watching his hair grow. I want him here at once. No delay, no excuse, is to be tolerated. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Exalted Fleetlord. It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord.” Pshing fled.
Henry Cabot Lodge arrived quite promptly, even if not so soon as Atvar might have wished. “I greet you, Exalted Fleetlord,” he said, his accent thick but understandable. “What can I do for you today? I gather from your adjutant that the business is urgent, whatever it may be.”
“You might say so,” Atvar answered. “Yes, you might say so. How does the United States dare to prepare to bombard Tosev 3 from the belt of minor planets between Tosev 4 and Tosev 5?”
He wondered if Lodge would have the nerve to deny the charge. But the Big Ugly said, “We are a free and independent not-empire. We are entitled to take whatever steps we choose to protect ourselves. So long as we are not at war with the Race, we do not have to make an accounting of our actions to you.”
“Do you recall how close you came to being at war with the Race not long ago?” the fleetlord demanded.
&
nbsp; “Yes. And I also recall the price we paid to avoid it,” Henry Cabot Lodge replied. “It was just that we should pay it then, for we were in the wrong. But we are not in the wrong here, Exalted Fleetlord, and you have no right to protest our legitimate research in space.”
Lodge was never a male to bluster and threaten. But he sounded determined here. Even Atvar, no great expert on Tosevite intonation, could tell as much. He said, “Regardless of whatever installations you devise out there, Ambassador, the Race remains able to destroy your not-empire many times over.”
“I understand that,” the Big Ugly said steadily. “We are now able to treat with you on more fully equal terms, however.”
And that, unfortunately, was a big, ugly, unpalatable truth. “We could wreck this entire planet, if necessary, to keep you Tosevites from escaping your solar system.” Atvar had had that thought before. Now, suddenly, it seemed much more urgent-and also much harder to do. Could he give such an order, slaying all the colonists along with the Big Uglies? He wondered.
He or his successors would have to be the ones to do it, if anyone did. By the time he sent a query Home and waited for a reply at the laggard speed of light, that reply would come far, far too late to do any good. Not even the Emperors had borne such responsibility, not since before the days when Home was unified.
Henry Cabot Lodge said, “That is madness, and you know it perfectly well.”
“Truth: it is madness,” Atvar agreed. “But Tosev 3 is a world of madness, so who knows whether a mad answer might not be the best?” To that, the American Big Ugly had not a single word to say.
17
Bombs burst in Peking, shaking the ground. At the Central Committee meeting, Liu Han turned to Nieh Ho-T’ing and said, “We are making them work much harder this time.”
