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“Since we have not meddled in China, I do not see why you are telling us not to do so,” Molotov replied. “You have never been able to prove otherwise.”
“You remain under very strong suspicion.” Queek got to his feet, and so did his interpreter. The Pole looked unhappy. He had come in hoping to see Molotov discomfited, but had not got what he wanted. Instead, his own principal was downcast while leaving. As Queek stalked toward the door, he added, “Sometimes strong enough suspicion is as good as truth.”
The Soviet Union ran on exactly the same principle. Nevertheless, Molotov affected outrage, snapping, “It had better not be. If you attack us on the basis of suspicion, a great many innocent human beings and members of the Race will die as a direct result of your error.”
He waited to see what Queek would say to that. The Lizard said nothing at all. He left the office, his interpreter trailing along like the running dog he was. When Molotov rose from his chair, sweat dripped from his armpits. He was good-perhaps better than any man alive-at simulating imperturbability. No one could gauge what he thought or whether he worried. But he knew. He knew all too well.
A crew of cleaners started vacuuming the office where he’d met with Queek and the hallway the Lizard and his interpreter had used coming to and going from that office. Molotov went back to the office he used for all business other than that involving the Race. Andrei Gromyko and Marshal Zhukov were sipping tea there.
“How did it go?” the foreign commissar asked.
“Well enough, Andrei Andreyevich,” Molotov answered. He savored the sound of the words, then nodded. “Yes, well enough. Perhaps even better than well enough. Queek came in full of accusations-”
“Groundless ones, of course,” Zhukov put in.
“Yes, of course, Georgi Konstantinovich,” Molotov agreed: despite the best Soviet security precautions, the Race might still be listening here. “As I say, he came in breathing fire, but I made him realize he had no proof whatever for his false claims, and that he had no business making threats without proof.”
“That’s good, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. That’s very good,” Zhukov said. “You do know your business, no two ways about it.”
“I am glad you think so,” Molotov said. If Zhukov didn’t think so, he would be out of a job and probably dead. He raised a forefinger. “One thing I noted: the Lizards are unusually concerned with the United States at the moment. Do you have any idea why, Comrade Marshal?”
“No, Comrade General Secretary.” Zhukov scribbled a note to himself. “I shall try to find out, though.”
“Good. By all means do so,” Molotov said, and Zhukov nodded in what was without a doubt obedience. Zhukov could unmake Molotov. The Red Army was, if he chose to wield it, the most powerful instrument in the USSR. But he seemed increasingly content to follow the lead of the Party and, especially, of its general secretary.
Molotov smiled, but only inside, where it didn’t show. He’d been through a lot. He was convinced he’d been through more than any one man deserved to suffer. But he’d prevailed so far, and now, against all odds, he thought he could bring the Red Army and its commander to heel again. He tapped a pencil a couple of times on his desk. I shall triumph yet, he thought. In spite of everything, I shall, and the Communist Party of the Soviet Union with me.
“You want to make the acquaintance of a Tosevite historian?” Felless said. “Why would you seek to meet such an individual?”
“I do not necessarily have to meet the Big Ugly,” Ttomalss replied. “But I would like to confer with a historian, yes. The Race faces many more difficulties in assimilating this world to the Empire than we anticipated.”
Felless let out a derisive hiss. “That has become painfully obvious.” It was so obvious, in fact, that she wondered why Ttomalss chose to belabor the point.
He proceeded to answer her. “Because of large differences in biology and relatively small differences in cultural sophistication, I think the Big Uglies will cling to their ways far more tenaciously than either the Rabotevs or Hallessi did. If you like, I can go into detail.”
“Please do,” Felless said, intrigued now: this was her specialty, too. And, when Ttomalss had finished, she found herself impressed almost against her will. “You make an interesting case,” she admitted. “But why do you seek a Tosevite historian?”
“I am interested in instances of acculturation and assimilation in the past on Tosev 3,” Ttomalss replied. “The more I understand about such matters from the perspective of the Big Uglies, the better my chances-the better the Race’s chances-of successfully planning for the full incorporation of this world into the Empire. And so… do you know, or know of, any Tosevite historians?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Felless answered. “I even know one who is in my debt.” She’d got Monique Dutourd a position, true. That she’d done so as a result of blackmail was something she kept to herself. She went on, “This Tosevite female’s one drawback is that she does not speak the language of the Race, but only Francais.”
“Language is often a problem in working with Big Uglies,” Ttomalss said. “I suspect you will be able to find me a translator. Please do get in touch with this historian, superior female, if you would be so kind.”
“Very well,” Felless said with poor grace; she wasn’t so sure she wanted to deal with the Big Ugly again. But duty was more important than anything, except possibly ginger. “It may take some little while. She is no longer in Marseille.”
Ttomalss made the affirmative gesture. “I understand. When you have the time, however, I would appreciate it.” He was so grateful and reasonable, Felless found no way to refuse him. That annoyed her, too.
Arranging a call to Tours wasn’t easy, especially since she needed an interpreter. She made sure she chose one who she knew tasted ginger. Dickering with the Tosevite was liable to involve topics that would horrify a prim and proper male or female: topics Ambassador Veffani, for instance, should never hear about. Even with a fellow taster, Felless knew she was taking a chance.
The call went through to Monique Dutourd’s university office, at a time when she was likely to be in. And, sure enough, she said, “Allo?” — the standard Francais telephone greeting.
“I greet you,” Felless said in return, and the interpreter translated her words into Francais. “Senior Researcher Felless here. Do you remember me?”
“Yes, very well.” The Big Ugly came straight to the point: “And what is it that you want with me?”
“Your expertise as a historian,” Felless answered.
“You are joking,” Monique Dutourd said. “Surely you must be joking.”
“Not at all,” Felless said. “A colleague of mine wishes to discuss Tosevite history with you. He is turning an eye turret toward analogies between the present situation with respect to the Race and you Tosevites and possible past situations in your history. I do not know if there are truly comparable situations. Neither does he. Would you be willing to explore this matter with him?”
“It could be,” the female Tosevite replied. “It could even be that it would be interesting. Is it that your colleague speaks Francais?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Felless said, thinking it wasn’t unfortunate at all, but only natural.
“What a pity,” Monique Dutourd said. “I do not speak your language, either. If we are to talk of the Romans, we shall need an interpreter, as you and I have here.”
As an aside, Felless asked the male who spoke Francais, “Who are these Romans?”
He shrugged. “Some Big Uglies or other, I suppose.” He would not be the ideal translator for Ttomalss; Felless could see that.
So could Monique Dutourd. She said, “It might be better if the interpreter were a Tosevite, someone who was himself at least somewhat familiar with the folk and events about which he was translating.”
“Yes, that does seem sensible,” Felless agreed. Monique Dutourd seemed intelligent-for a Big Ugly, Felless added to herself. She asked, “Do y
ou have anyone in particular in mind to translate for you, then?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” the Tosevite female answered. Felless’ interpreter had to resort to circumlocution for a bit after that: “The Tosevite male she has in mind is the fellow hatchling of the male and female who engendered her. The Big Uglies can describe this relationship in one word, though we cannot. She assures me that he is fluent in our language-as fluent as a Tosevite can be.”
“Big Uglies stress kinship as we stress friendship,” Felless said, and the male with her made the affirmative gesture. She went on, “Ask her if she thinks this male Tosevite would be willing to do the work of translating, and what sort of pay both she and he would expect for working with Ttomalss.”
“I am sure Pierre would be willing,” Monique Dutourd replied. “There is a certain difficulty, however: the Race presently has him imprisoned for smuggling ginger. If you can do anything to get him released, I would be grateful.”
“I would not mind seeing Pierre Dutourd released myself,” Felless’ translator remarked. “I have bought a good deal of the herb from him, and it is harder to find now-not impossible, but harder.”
