Colonization_ Aftershocks Part 41

"Exalted Fleetlord, I do not need to be libelous to be interesting," Straha said.

"I will be the judge of that, when my aides and I see the ma.n.u.script you produce," Atvar said.

Had Straha been a Big Ugly, he would have smiled. "You and your aides will not be the only ones judging it. I am sure Fleetlord Reffet and many of the colonists would be fascinated to learn all all the details of what happened before they got here. And, as I say, I doubt I would need to distort the truth in any way to keep them entertained and their tongues wagging." the details of what happened before they got here. And, as I say, I doubt I would need to distort the truth in any way to keep them entertained and their tongues wagging."

He waited to see how Atvar would take that. He despised Reffet almost as much as Atvar did, but if he could use the fleetlord of the colonization fleet as a lever against the fleetlord of the conquest fleet, he would not only do it, he would enjoy doing it. And, sure enough, Atvar said, "You mean you will go out of your way to embarra.s.s me and hope Reffet will like the result enough to let you go ahead and publish it."

"That is not at all what I said, Exalted Fleetlord," Straha protested, although it was exactly what he'd meant.

"Suppose I let you get away with that," Atvar said. "Suppose I pretend not to notice whatever you may have to say about me. Will you include in your memoirs pa.s.sages indicating the need for a long-term Soldiers' Time here on Tosev 3, to help stop the endless grumbling from the colonists? The Race, after all, is more important than either one of us."

Straha hadn't expected that, either. Yes, Atvar had changed over the years. To some degree, that made him harder to dislike, but only to some degree. Straha made the affirmative gesture. "I think we have a bargain."

"Imagine my delight." Atvar broke the connection. No, he wasn't so hard to dislike after all.

.15.

As Reuven and Moishe Russie were walking from their home to the office they now shared, Reuven's father asked him, "And how is Mrs. Radofsky's toe these days?"

His tone was a little too elaborately casual to be quite convincing. "It seems to be coming along very well," Reuven answered. Listening to himself, he found he also sounded a little too elaborately casual to be quite convincing.

"I'm glad to hear it," Moishe Russie said. "And what is your opinion of those parts of Mrs. Radofsky located north of her fractured toe?"

"My medical opinion is that the rest of Mrs. Radofsky is quite healthy," Reuven replied.

His father smiled. "I don't believe I asked for your medical opinion."

"Well, it's what you're going to get," Reuven said, which made Moishe Russie laugh out loud. After a few more paces, Reuven added, "I think she's a very nice person. Her daughter is a sweet little girl."

"Yes, that's always a good sign," Moishe Russie agreed.

"A good sign of what?" Reuven asked.

"That someone is a nice person," his father said. "Nice people commonly have nice children." He gave his own son a sidelong glance. "There are exceptions every now and then, of course."

"Yes, I suppose an obnoxious father could have a nice son," Reuven said blandly. His father laughed again, and thumped him on the back.

They were both still chuckling as they went into the office. Yetta, the receptionist, had got there ahead of both of them. She sent them disapproving looks. "What's waiting for us today, Yetta?" Moishe Russie asked. He and Reuven already had a pretty good idea of their scheduled appointments, but Yetta got fussy if they didn't respect what she saw as her prerogative.

Sometimes, as now, she got fussy anyhow. "Neither one of you has enough to keep you busy," she complained. "I don't know how you expect to pay the bills if you don't have more patients."

"We're doing all right," Reuven said, which was true and more than true.

"Well, you won't keep doing all right unless more people come down sick," Yetta snapped. Reuven looked at his father. His father was looking at him. That made it harder for both of them to keep from laughing. Somehow, they managed. They went past the disapproving Yetta and into their own offices. Neither of them had an appointment scheduled till ten o'clock, an hour and a half away. Reuven caught up on paperwork-a never-ending struggle-and was working his way through a Lizard medical journal when his father called him.

"What's up?" Reuven asked.

"I hear Ppurrin and Waxxa really have gone to the United States," Moishe Russie answered.

"Have they?" Reuven said. "Well, that's one problem solved for old Atvar, then, and some credit for us because we came up with the idea for him."

"Credit for us, yes," his father said. "A problem solved? I don't know. I wouldn't bet on it, though for the time being I think Atvar thinks he won't have to worry about it any more."

"What do you mean?" Reuven said. "The Americans will let those Lizards stay. They may be perverts to the Race, but not to us."

"I'm sure the Americans will let them stay, yes." His father nodded. "That's not the problem, or not as I see it, anyhow."

Reuven scratched his head. "What is, then? I'm sorry, Father, but I'm not following you at all."

No? Moishe Russie grinned. "All right. Let's put it like this: do you think Ppurrin and Waxxa will be the only pair of what the Lizards call perverts that they'll have? A lot of Lizards taste ginger."

"Oh," Reuven said, and then, in an altogether different tone of voice, "Oh." "Oh." He gave his father an admiring look. "You think those two are just the tip of the iceberg, don't you?" He gave his father an admiring look. "You think those two are just the tip of the iceberg, don't you?"

"Don't you?" his father returned. "The colonists haven't been here very long, after all, and this is already starting to happen. What will things be like when you're my age? What will things be like when your children are my age?"

Most times, Reuven would have pointed out with some heat that he had no children at present. Today, though, he nodded thoughtfully. "They'll have to change a lot of things to adjust to that, won't they? I mean, if they really do start forming permanent mated pairs."

"Start falling in love and getting married," Moishe Russie said, and Reuven nodded, accepting the correction. His father went on, "It will be as hard for them to get used to the idea of pairs settling down together as it would be for us to get used to the idea of being promiscuous all the time." He wagged a finger at his son. "And wipe that dirty grin off your face."

"Who, me?" Reuven said, as innocently as he could. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's pretty funny," Moishe Russie said. "Now tell me another one."

"No." Reuven shook his head. He cautiously looked out the door, then lowered his voice anyhow: "Who do you think I am, Yetta or somebody?"

His father rolled his eyes. "She does her work well. As for the rest..." He shrugged and then, in a near whisper, went on, "We might get somebody who's a pain in the neck and doesn't do her job well. I can put up with bad jokes."

"I suppose so." Reuven pulled his mind back to the business at hand. "Do you really think we'll see a day when the Lizards start pairing off by the thousands instead of just one couple at a time? That would make this world different from all the others in the Empire in some very important ways."

"I know," Moishe Russie said. "I'm not sure the Race has really figured all of that out yet. And it will be years before the other planets in the Empire find out what ginger is doing here, even if it does what I think it will. It's always going to be years between stars as far as radio goes, and even more years between them as far as travel. The Race is more patient than we are. I don't think we could have built an empire that would hang together in spite of all the delays in giving orders and getting things done."

"You're bound to be right about that," Reuven said. "Somebody who was governor on one planet would decide he wanted to be king or president or whatever he called himself, and he'd stop taking orders and set up his own government or else start a civil war."

"That's how we are," his father agreed. "The Lizards here know it, too. I wonder what they think of us back on Home."

"So do I," Reuven said. "Whatever it is, it's bound to be ten years out of date."

"I know." Moishe Russie laughed. "And by the time Home answers, it's twenty years out of date. Atvar is just now finding out what the Emperor thinks of the truce he made with us Big Uglies."

"And what does the Emperor think?" Reuven asked. "Has Atvar said?" He was going to use his father's connections with the Race for all they were worth.

"He hasn't said much," his father answered. "I gather the Emperor knows Atvar's the man, uh, the Lizard on the spot, and so he has to do what he thinks best. It's a good thing the Emperor didn't order him to go back to war with all of us, and you had best believe that's a truth." He'd been speaking Hebrew, but threw in an emphatic cough even so.

"Do you really think he would have done it if the Emperor had told him to?" Reuven asked. That unpleasant possibility hadn't crossed his mind.

But his father nodded. "If the Emperor told Atvar to stick a skewer through Earth and throw it on the fire, he'd do it. I don't think we can even imagine how well the Lizards obey the Emperor."

"I suppose not." Reuven knew the males of the Race with whom he'd dealt over the years didn't understand what made him tick. He was willing to believe it worked both ways.

The front door opened. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Krause," Yetta said. She raised her voice: "Dr. Russie, Mr. Krause is here."

"He's mine," Reuven's father said. In a soft aside, he added, "If he'd lose twenty kilos and stop drinking and smoking, he'd add twenty years to his life."

Reuven said, "He probably thinks they'd be twenty boring years." He got up and went back to his own office while his father was still scratching his head over that. If Mr. Krause was here, his own first patient would come through the door pretty soon, too.

Before Yetta announced that first patient's arrival, Reuven picked up the telephone and made a call. After the phone rang a couple of times, somebody on the other end of the line, a woman, picked it up. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Mrs. Radofsky?" Reuven said.

"No, she's at work. This is her sister," the woman answered. "Who's calling, please?" In the background, Miriam prattled something-the sister was undoubtedly looking after her.

"This is Dr. Russie," Reuven answered. "I'm calling to find out how her broken toe is doing."

He wondered if the sister would simply tell him and hang up. Instead, she said, "Oh, thank you very much, Dr. Russie. Let me give you her number."

She did. Reuven wrote it down. After he said his good-byes, he called it. "Gold Lion Furniture," a woman said.

This time, Reuven recognized Mrs. Radofsky's voice. He named himself, and then asked, "How's your toe doing these days?"

"It's still sore," the widow Radofsky answered, "but it's getting better. It's not as swollen as it was, and it doesn't hurt as much as it did, either."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, for all the world as if he, as opposed to the pa.s.sage of time, had had something to do with her recovery.

"Thank you very much for calling," she said. "I'm sure most doctors wouldn't have done it for their patients."

Reuven was sure he wouldn't have done it for most of his patients, too. He also had a pretty good notion the widow Radofsky was sure of that. Even so, he nervously drummed his fingers on his desk before asking, "Would you, ah, like to go out to supper with me one of these evenings to celebrate feeling better?"

Silence on the other end of the line. He braced himself for rejection. If she said no, if she still had her dead husband and n.o.body else in her heart, how could he blame her? He couldn't. For that matter, if she just wasn't interested in him for a mult.i.tude of other reasons, how could he blame her? Again, he couldn't.

But, at last, she said, "Thank you. I think I would like that. Call me at home, why don't you, and we'll make the arrangements."

"All right," he said. Yetta chose that moment to bawl out his name. His first patient had made an appearance after all. Reuven said his goodbyes and hung up. He was smiling. The patient had waited just long enough.

Marshal Zhukov had, or could have, more power than Vyacheslav Molotov. Molotov knew it, too. But, because of his Party office, he exercised a certain moral authority over the marshal-as long as Zhukov chose to acknowledge it, which he did.

Molotov took advantage of that now. He said, "I a.s.sume our support for the People's Liberation Army will be altogether clandestine, Georgi Konstantinovich. It had better be, at any rate."

"If it isn't, Comrade General Secretary, it will be at least as big a surprise to me as it is to you," Zhukov answered.

That was, no doubt, intended for a joke. As usual, Molotov disapproved of jokes. All they were good for, in his jaundiced opinion, was clouding the issue. He did not want this issue clouded. He wanted no ambiguity whatsoever here. "If we are detected, Comrade Marshal, very unfortunate things will spring from it. Consider the Reich. Reich. Consider the United States." Consider the United States."

"I do consider them. I consider them every day," Zhukov said. "As far as the People's Liberation Army knows, our aid has not been detected. As far as the GRU knows, it has not been detected. As far as the NKVD knows, it has not been detected. We are as secure as we can possibly be."

His lip curled when he condescended to name the NKVD at all. The Party's espionage and security service, as opposed to the Red Army's (which it frequently was), had fallen on hard times since Beria's botched coup. That was partly at Molotov's insistence, partly at Zhukov's-the NKVD spied on the Red Army as well as the rest of the world. It had needed purging of Beria's henchmen, and had got it.

Even so, Molotov wished he had the NKVD running at a higher level of efficiency than it possessed right now. The GRU was a good service, but its first loyalty lay with the Army, not with the Party: with Zhukov, not with him. And he wanted more than one perspective on his course of action. Having to rely on the GRU alone left him feeling like a one-eyed man.

He said nothing of that to Zhukov, of course. It would have roused the marshal's suspicions, and Zhukov had plenty even when they weren't roused. He would have thought Molotov was trying to rebuild an independent political position. He would have been right, too.

Aloud Molotov was mild, as he had to be: "Let us hope the a.s.sessments are correct, then. Given the German arms we have been able to supply to the People's Liberation Army, do you think they stand any serious chance of throwing off the Race's yoke in China?"

"Probably not, but they can make enormous nuisances of themselves, and when was Mao ever good for any more than that?" Zhukov answered, proving Molotov did not have the exclusive franchise for cynicism among the Soviet leaders. "Besides, even if the Chinese do seem on the brink of expelling the Lizards, the Race has explosive-metal bombs, and the People's Liberation Army doesn't."

"Not from us, anyhow," Molotov agreed. "But life gets more difficult and more complicated now that the j.a.panese do have them."

Zhukov nodded. "They had imperialist designs on China before the Lizards showed up. They haven't forgotten, either. They still think of it as their rightful sphere of influence."

"That is part of it, Georgi Konstantinovich, but only part." Molotov was glad the marshal did leave him control over foreign policy. Zhukov was a long way from stupid, but he didn't always see the subtleties. "The rest is, the Race may also hesitate longer before using explosive-metal weapons now that they have to take the j.a.panese more seriously."

"Maybe." Zhukov didn't sound convinced. "The Lizards didn't give a fart about what we thought when they pounded the n.a.z.is flat. We're going to be worrying about fallout in the Baltics and Byelorussia and the western Ukraine for years to come."

"Not all of that fallout is from the Lizards' bombs," Molotov said. "Some of it comes from the ones the Germans used on Poland."

"Doesn't matter," Marshal Zhukov insisted. "The point is the same either way: they'll do what they think needs doing, and they'll worry about everything else later. If the rebels in China look like winning, their cities will start going up in smoke." He waved his hand. "Do svidanya, "Do svidanya, Mao." Mao."

Molotov considered. Maybe he'd looked for subtleties and missed a piece of the big picture. "It could be," he admitted.

"There are times I wouldn't miss him, believe you me there are," Zhukov said. "He's as arrogant as Stalin ever was, but Stalin did plenty to earn the right. Mao's nothing but a jumped-up bandit chief, and a lot of the jumping up is only in his own mind."

More than the foolish joke earlier, that did tempt Molotov to smile. It also made him look nervously around the office. He noticed Zhukov doing the same thing. "We're both afraid Iosef Vissarrionovich is listening," he said.

"He's been dead twelve years and more," Zhukov said. "But if anybody could still be listening after all that time, he's the one."

"That is the truth," Molotov agreed. "Very well, then. Do your best to get still more weapons to the Chinese. If they are going to annoy the Lizards, we want them to do it on a grand scale. The more attention the Race pays to China, the less it will be able to pay to anything else-including us."

"And the less attention the Race pays to us, the better we shall like it." Zhukov nodded; he saw the desirability of that as plainly as Molotov did. After another nod, he got to his feet. "All right, Comrade General Secretary. We'll continue on the course we've set." A grin spread over his broad peasant features. "And with any luck at all, the n.a.z.is will get the blame."

"Yes, that would break my heart," Molotov said, which made Zhukov laugh out loud. The marshal's salute was unusually sincere. He did a smart about-turn and left the general secretary's office.

Molotov scratched his chin. Little by little, he was, or thought he was, regaining some of the authority he'd had to yield to Marshal Zhukov after the Red Army crushed Beria's abortive coup. He hadn't really tried to exert it; he could have been wrong. One of these days, though, he might have to try. He wouldn't live forever. He didn't want his successor as beholden to the Army as he was. Of course, what he wanted might end up having nothing to do with the way things turned out.

His secretary stuck his head into the office. "Your next appointment is here, Comrade General Secretary," he said. "It's-"

"I know who it is, Pyotr Maksimovich," Molotov snapped. "I do keep track of these things, you know. Send him in."

"Yes, Comrade General Secretary." His secretary retreated in a hurry, which was what Molotov had in mind.