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Prevod was an excellent writer. Straha would never have asked her to collaborate with him had he not liked some of her work he’d seen. And, as he saw from the prose the two of them produced together, his memoirs would be an egg-smasher to set tongues wagging for years…if they were ever published. He’d always expected Atvar to prove an obstacle to publication. He hadn’t expected the same problem from his coauthor.
“But, Shiplord, you cannot say that!” Prevod exclaimed, not for the first time, when Straha outlined another of the quarrels that had led to his barely unsuccessful effort to overthrow Atvar as fleetlord of the conquest fleet.
“And why not?” Straha demanded. He liked it that she was polite enough to call him shiplord, even though he was no longer entitled to wear the body paint showing him to be the third most powerful male in the conquest fleet. “It is a truth. I never stopped warning him that his half measures would lead to trouble. He continued them, and they did indeed lead to trouble.”
“Have you got documentary evidence to support this?” Prevod asked.
“I am sure such evidence exists,” Straha said. “I did not offer this advice in secret, but in meetings of the high-ranking officers of the fleet. Those records would have been preserved.”
“Can we gain access to them?” Prevod asked. “Or are they concealed from general view under secrecy regulations?”
“The latter, I would suspect,” Straha said. “Atvar would not be eager to have his ineptitude displayed for everyone to see.” He hesitated. When he went on, his tone was grudging: “And, I admit, even now we might not want the Big Uglies to learn how divided and uncertain we were in those days. They might think that malady still afflicted us. And”-acid returned to his voice-“with Atvar still in command, they might be right.”
Prevod sighed. “Without the documentation, Shiplord, how can I hope to include this incident in the book?”
Straha sighed, too. “I am not writing a history text here, you know. Footnotes are not mandatory.” He studied Prevod. She was young and bright and highly skilled with words. When he engaged her, he’d thought that would be enough. He’d thought it would be more than enough, in fact. What he thought now was, Maybe I was wrong. Swinging an eye turret her way, he asked, “Have you ever felt inclined to challenge authority?”
“Why, no, Shiplord.” She sounded astonished that he should put such a question to her. “Those senior to me are generally senior for good reason. They know more than I do, and have more experience. Should I not learn from them rather than trying to substitute my inferior judgment for theirs?”
That was the response a female of the Race should have given. It was the response the large majority of males and females would have given. Straha knew as much. But hearing it now frustrated him no end. “If those in authority make a mistake, should you not point it out? If you fail to point it out, will they not go on making it-and probably making other mistakes as well?”
“Their own superiors are the ones who should correct them,” Prevod replied. “That is not an appropriate role for an inferior.”
“Who was Atvar’s superior?” Straha asked. “He made mistakes. He made them in huge lots. Who was to point them out to him? He had no superiors here. He still has none-and he is probably still making mistakes.”
“In my opinion, rehashing a past that cannot be changed will not gain you many readers,” Prevod said. “You would create a far more entertaining and exciting book by concentrating on the foibles of the Big Uglies and on your return to the Race with the information about which group of Tosevites attacked the colonization fleet. Do remember, most of those who read the book will have come here as members of the colonization fleet, not the conquest fleet.”
“I understand that,” Straha said. “You want this to be an entertaining and exciting memoir, then, not an important one?”
“If no one reads it, how can it be an important memoir?” Prevod said.
By the Emperor, how I want a taste of ginger, Straha thought. By the Emperor, how I need a taste of ginger. He refrained, though it wasn’t easy. He knew he would have a harder time putting up with Prevod if he did taste. Picking his words with care, he said, “One of the so-called foibles you mention was an honesty so thoroughgoing, the male who possessed it gave me information that would harm his own not-empire and his own species because he judged that the right thing to do. How many males and females of the Race could hope to match him? But perhaps that would not amuse my readers enough to be entertaining.”
He intended his words for sarcasm. But Prevod took them literally, saying, “Many would think well of the Big Ugly under those circumstances. Having a sympathetic Tosevite appear might make for an interesting novelty.”
“We both use the language of the Race,” Straha said, “but I wonder if we speak the same tongue. Maybe I should go on in English.” He spoke the last sentence in the Tosevite language. He hadn’t used it since fleeing the United States.
“What did you just say?” Now Prevod sounded interested. When he told her, she went on, “Did you have to learn that Tosevite tongue? Were the Big Uglies too ignorant to learn ours?”
“You really ought to know better,” Straha said. “Some of them not only speak it but write it quite well.” That was when he realized he’d lost his temper, for he added, “About as well as you do, in fact.”
Prevod’s tailstump quivered in anger. She said, “That is ridiculous.”
“Is it?” Yes, Straha had lost his temper. He wrote an electronic message to Sam Yeager under the name of Maargyees that Yeager used to fool the Race’s computer network: I am trying to persuade a certain-a very certain-female that you are literate in our language.
Luck was with him, for a reply came back almost at once: I am sorry, Shiplord, but I cannot write it any more than I can speak it.
I see, Straha wrote back. And why not?
Because I am only a Big Ugly, of course, Sam Yeager returned. How can anyone without a tailstump have any brains? That is where the Race keeps them, is it not?
I often wonder if we keep them anywhere, Straha wrote.
Well, in that case you are wasted as a male of the Race, his Tosevite friend answered. You really ought to turn into a Big Ugly.
Straha’s mouth fell open in startled laughter. He swung an eye turret away from the monitor and back toward Prevod. “Do you see what I mean?”
The writer’s tailstump was twitching more than ever. “If you care for his writing so much, Shiplord”-now she used the title as one of reproach, not respect; he could hear the difference in her voice-“maybe you ought to get him to compose your memoirs with you.”
“Do you know,” Straha said slowly, “that is not the worst idea I have ever heard. Of course, most of the worst ideas I have ever heard have come straight from Atvar’s mouth.”
He meant the joke to soften what he’d said just before. It didn’t do the job. Prevod sprang to her feet. “Whomever you use to help you write your memoirs, I shall not be that female,” she said. “As far as I can see, the Race was right to keep you far away-you fit in better with the Tosevite barbarians than you do with us.” She punctuated that with an e
mphatic cough. And, before Straha could say anything, she stormed out of his chamber in Shepheard’s Hotel and slammed the door behind her.
“Oh, dear,” Straha said aloud. Then he started to laugh. He went back to the computer and wrote, Are you still there, Sam Yeager?
No, I am not here, Yeager replied. I expect to be back pretty soon, though.
That was, on the face of it, absurd. No male of the Race would have thought to write any such self-contradictory sentences. And yet, as an answer to a rhetorical question, why wasn’t no as good as yes? Straha returned to the keyboard and wrote, How would you like to help me put my memoirs together?
What happened to the writer you were working with? the Tosevite asked.
You did, Straha answered.
This time, the only symbol Sam Yeager sent was the one the Race used as a written equivalent of an interrogative cough.
It is, unfortunately, a truth, Straha told him. I made an invidious comparison between her writing ability and yours, and, for some reason or other, she took offense. I now find myself without a collaborator. Are you interested in becoming one? You know the story I aim to tell. You should: you have interrogated me about a good deal of it.
The Big Ugly didn’t reply for some little while. When he did, he wrote, Sorry for the delay. I had to find out what “invidious” meant. You must be joking, Shiplord.
By no means, Straha wrote, and used the symbol for an emphatic cough.
Well, if you are not, you ought to be, Sam Yeager wrote back. I do not write your language well enough for males and females of the Race to want to read my words. They would be able to tell I am a Big Ugly. Your computers figured out that I was, because I sound as if I am writing English.
Computers do not read. Readers read, Straha insisted. Your way of writing is interesting and unusual, whatever makes it so.
I thank you, Shiplord, Sam Yeager replied. I thank you very much. You have paid me a great compliment. But I cannot do this. And your chances of getting your memoir published go up if you have a member of the Race writing with you, and go down with me. You cannot say that is not a truth.
