Second Contact Read online

  “Disgusting,” said Pshing, who was fastidious even for a male of the Race.

  “Big Uglies commonly are,” Atvar said. “Some, though, are disgusting and dangerous. This one, fortunately, is not.”

  “Even with the colonization fleet, will we be able to do all we want on Tosev 3?” Pshing asked. “The natives will outnumber us to a far greater extent than anyone knew they would when we left Home.”

  “I understand that, but we cannot expect more colonists for many years,” Atvar said. “And, with the Big Uglies so thick on the ground most places, too large a colonization might exceed the carrying capacity of the land.”

  “Local agricultural methods are not the most efficient,” Pshing said. “And if a few, or more than a few, Big Uglies go hungry, there are many here among us who would not be overly disappointed.”

  “I understand that,” the fleetlord said. “If we ruled this whole world, what you are suggesting would be easy to achieve. But I fear the independent not-empires would not take kindly to the notion of our starving their fellow Tosevites. The independent not-empires do not take kindly to many notions of ours, except those they can steal.” He looked around again. The landscape definitely reminded him of Home. Maybe I will retire here, he thought. If he did, it couldn’t come a day too soon.

  Sam Yeager let out a sigh of relief. “Well, honey,” he said, “I could be wrong, but I think we’ve weathered another one.”

  “Thank heaven,” Barbara said, carving another bite of lamb off her chop. “I didn’t know whether we would be able to manage it. We hadn’t come so close to big trouble since the fighting stopped.”

  “How much help did you give, Dad?” Jonathan Yeager asked. That his father worked with the Race impressed him. Anything that could impress an eighteen-year-old about his father was good, as far as Sam was concerned.

  “Not that much,” he answered honestly. “Mr. Lodge is a good ambassador. He let the Lizards know what we’d put up with and what we wouldn’t. All I did was sort through the ways we might compromise.”

  “Compromise.” It was in Jonathan’s vocabulary, but he sounded about as keen on it as he was on lima beans.

  “We need it,” Barbara said. “If you were old enough to remember the fighting, you’d know how much we need it.”

  “A fight would be worse this time, too,” Sam said. “Nobody would wait very long before he started throwing atomic bombs around. And once that genie got out of the bottle, it’d be Katie bar the door.”

  Barbara gave him a severe look. “The New Yorker runs a little feature called ‘Block That Metaphor.’ I think you just qualified, honey.”

  “Did I?” Yeager mentally reviewed what he’d just said. With a sheepish grin, he admitted, “Well, okay, I guess I did.”

  Around a mouthful of lamb chop, Jonathan said, “The Lizards should have stomped whoever did that to them into the mud.” He added an emphatic cough, to which his full mouth lent alarming authenticity.

  “I won’t say you’re wrong,” Sam said slowly. “The trick is being able to do that without setting the whole planet on fire.” People had talked that way after Pearl Harbor. It had been a metaphor then. It wasn’t a metaphor any more. He went on, “Whoever did it was pretty sly. He got in a good lick”—Barbara stirred but did not rise to that—“and managed not to get hit back, or at least not very hard. Himmler or Molotov is laughing up his sleeve at Atvar.”

  “They both say they didn’t do it,” Barbara said.

  “What are they going to say?” Jonathan Yeager waved his fork in the air to emphasize the point.

  “Maybe they really didn’t,” Barbara said. “Maybe the Japanese did, or even the British.”

  But Sam shook his head. “No, hon, it couldn’t have happened that way. The Japs and the English fly rockets, yeah, but they haven’t got anything up in orbit, and it was an orbiting weapon that took out the Lizards’ ships. The Japanese don’t have nuclear weapons, either, though I know the British do.”

  “One of the Big Three, then.” Barbara pursed her lips. “Not us. The Russians or the Germans? The Lady or the Tiger?”

  “I’d bet on the Russians,” Jonathan said suddenly.

  “How come?” Sam asked. “More people seem to think the Germans did it. More Lizards seem to think the Germans did it, too.”

  “Because the Russians are better at keeping secrets,” his son answered. “You hardly ever hear about anything that happens over there. When the Germans do something, they brag about it before they do it, they go on bragging while they’re doing it, and then they brag that they’ve done it once they’re through.”

  Yeager laughed. “You make ’em sound like a bunch of laying hens.” He paused and thought about it. “You may have something. But you may not, too. The Germans can keep things quiet when they want to badly enough. Look at the way they sucker-punched the Russians the year before the Lizards came.”

  “Look at the way they kept quiet about what they were doing to the Jews,” Barbara added. “Nobody knew anything about that till the Lizards blew the whistle on them.”

  “Nobody wanted to know anything about that,” Yeager said, at which Barbara nodded. He went on, “Even so—you could be right, Jonathan. The president was going on about how close to the chest Molotov plays his cards.”

  Jonathan looked down at the body paint on his own bare chest. At the moment, he was painted as a killercraft maintenance technician. He said, “I wish you’d let me talk more with my friends about what you do. They’d think it was pretty hot.”

  “No,” Sam said automatically. “Not unless you want me to get into big trouble with my superiors. I deal with the Lizards because that’s my job, not to let you impress your buddies.”

  “I know,” Jonathan said, “but still . . .” His voice trailed away. Yeager hid a smile. Jonathan and his friends spent a lot of time and effort acting as much like Lizards as they could, but rarely had anything to do with an actual male of the Race. Sam didn’t paint his hide or shave his head or anything of the sort, but he knew as much about Lizards as any human being around. It probably didn’t seem fair to Jonathan. A lot of things hadn’t seemed fair to Sam at the same age: not least why people like Babe Ruth and Rogers Hornsby were in the big leagues while he himself had barely managed to hook on with a Class D team.

  Because they were older than me and better than me. That seemed obvious now. It hadn’t seemed obvious when he was eighteen and fresh off the farm. Life was like that, though at eighteen you didn’t want to know it.

  “It’s got to be that way, son,” Sam said. “As things are, I probably talk too much around here.”

  “Huh!” Jonathan said. “If you tell me ‘Good morning,’ you think you’re talking too much. The only time you don’t think you’re talking too much is when you’re telling me to do stuff I don’t want to do.”

  Spoken in a different tone of voice, that would have touched off a family brawl. Yeager knew a lot of people with kids his son’s age who couldn’t do anything with them and didn’t want to do anything with them but hit them over the head with a brick. But Jonathan was laughing, showing Sam and Barbara he wasn’t—altogether— serious. Shaved head and body paint aside, he was a pretty good kid. Whenever Sam got sick of looking at his son’s bare scalp and painted torso, he reminded himself of that. Sometimes he had to remind himself several times.

  After supper, Jonathan went back to his room to study; he’d started his freshman year at UCLA. Barbara washed dishes. Sam dried. Tomorrow night, they’d do it the other way round. “We’ve got to buy a dishwasher,” Barbara said, as she did about once a week. “They get better and cheaper every year.”

  Sam answered as he did about once a week: “We’ve already got two good dishwashers here: us. And we’ve got a spare in the back room. Where are you going to buy a dishwasher that can learn calculus and German?”

  Before Barbara could make the next move in a sequence almost as formal as a chess opening, somebody rang the front doorbell. Sam was
closer, so he went to open it. Standing on the porch was a pretty, freckle-faced, redheaded girl of Jonathan’s age. She wore sandals, denim shorts, and a tiny, flesh-colored halter top; her body paint most improbably proclaimed her an expert sniper.

  “Hello, Mr. Yeager.” She held up a book she carried under her arm. “German test tomorrow.”

  “Hi, Karen. Come on in.” Sam stood aside so she could. “Jonathan’s already hard at it, I think. Grab yourself a Coke from the icebox and you can give him a hand.”

  “It shall be done, superior sir,” she said in the Lizards’ language as she headed for the kitchen. She knew the way; she and Jonathan had gone to Peary High School together, and dated on and off their last year there. Sam followed. If he watched her as he followed—well, then, he did, that was all.

  After Karen got the Coke, she chatted with Barbara for a minute or two before heading for Jonathan’s room. There with his wife, Sam didn’t eye her at all. Out of the side of her mouth, Barbara murmured, “Oh, go ahead—enjoy yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam said virtuously.

  “No, eh? A likely story.” Barbara stuck out her tongue at him. “Come on—let’s finish the dishes.”

  As he dried the last couple of pots and pans, Yeager listened for the sounds of Teutonic gutturals coming out of Jonathan’s bedroom. He heard them, which meant he kept on drying. Studying with a girl with the door closed was against house rules. Remembering himself at Jonathan’s age, he knew he might have tried to get away with things even with the door open.

  “You have an evil mind, Sam,” Barbara said, but he noticed she was cocking her head in the direction of Jonathan’s room every now and then, too.

  “Takes one to know one,” he told her, and she stuck out her tongue at him again.

  After the dishes were done and put away, he went into the study, turned on the radio, and tuned it to a band the Lizards used. The Race didn’t reveal the details of its plans on public programs, any more than human governments did. But attitudes mattered, too; what they were telling their own people gave some clues about how they would respond to humans.

  This was a sort of Lizard-in-the-street program. The interviewer asked, “And what do you think of the Tosevites here in Mexico?”

  “They are not so bad. They are not quite so big or so ugly as the males from the conquest fleet made me think they would be,” replied the Lizard he was interviewing, evidently a newly revived colonist. He went on, “They seem friendly enough, too.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” said the interviewer, who was as gooey with a microphone in his hand as any human ever born. “And now—”

  But the colonist interrupted: “It still seems pretty strange, though: waking up and finding out the Race only owns half this planet, I mean. We ought to do something about that. It is not the way things were supposed to be in the plan, and the plan has to work.”

  “Well, of course it does,” the interviewer said, “and of course it will, even if it takes a while longer than we thought it would. Now I shall turn things over to Kekkefu in Australia, who will . . .”

  Sam listened for a while longer, now and then jotting a note. He wondered if the notion that the plan from Home would work but needed more time, which was repeated several times, was intended to get the colonists used to the way things really were by easy stages, or if it reflected the Lizard brass’ true beliefs. If the former, well and good. If the latter, there’d be more trouble ahead. He scribbled a new note.

  Karen stuck her head in the door. “Good night, Mr. Yeager.”

  He looked up, then looked at his watch. How had it got so late? “Oh. Good night, Karen. I hope you and Jonathan ace that test.”

  Had she acted as if she didn’t know what he was talking about, he would have figured she and Jonathan had been studying something other than German—biology, most likely. But she grinned and nodded and headed for the door, so he gave them the benefit of the doubt.

  As the pilot opened the hatch to the shuttlecraft, Felless said, “I never imagined my dealings with Tosevites would include dealings with those who have not yet submitted to the Race.”

  “If you want to get along with the Deutsche, you will not even think about that yet, superior female,” said the pilot, who was a veteran of the conquest fleet. “As far as they are concerned, they are the biggest and best around. They even call themselves the Master Race sometimes.”

  Felless’ mouth opened in a great chortle of mirth. “The impudence!” she exclaimed. “The arrogance!”

  But, after she got down out of the shuttlecraft, the Deutsche seemed less impudent, even if she still got a strong impression of how arrogant they were. Their males, wrapped in gray cloth, steel helmets on their heads, automatic rifles in their hands, towered over her, so much so that she wondered if they were specially chosen for height. A couple of Deutsch landcruisers aimed their weapons at the shuttlecraft. They were recognizably the descendants of the machines the Reich had used during the fighting. They were also recognizably more formidable. Not being a soldier, she could not tell if they were a match for those the Race built. If they weren’t, though, they couldn’t have missed by much.

  A male in civilian costume—white and black cloth, with a cloth headgear—came up and spoke in the language of the Race: “You are Senior Researcher Felless?”

  “I am,” she answered: her first words with a wild Big Ugly.

  “I am Franz Eberlein, of the Foreign Ministry,” he said. “You are to present your credentials to me before you may be permitted to enter Nuremberg.”

  She had been briefed to expect such a demand. “It shall be done,” she said, knowing it was for form’s sake only. The sheet she gave him was written in both the language of the Race and in the odd, angular characters the Deutsche used to write their language. “Is all in order?” Felless asked, also for form’s sake.

  Eberlein seemed to have been reading the document in her tongue, not in his own. “Alles gut,” he said, and then, in the language of the Race, “Everything is good.” He nodded to the soldiers, who, without moving, contrived to look less menacing. Then he turned and waved to the edge of the great concrete slab on which the shuttlecraft had landed. A motor vehicle of Tosevite manufacture approached. “Here is your transport to the embassy of the Race.”

  It had, she was glad to see, a male of the Race steering. The Big Ugly from the Foreign Ministry opened the rear door when the vehicle stopped. As Felless went past him, he clicked his heels together and bent at the waist. That was, she had learned, a Tosevite equivalent to the posture of respect.

  “Welcome to Nuremberg, Senior Researcher,” the driver said. “I hope you will forgive me for a lack of conversation as we go. This vehicle has no automatic control, so I must pay attention to the road and to the Big Uglies using it. If I cause a crash, the Race is liable for damages.”

  “Which Tosevites are liable for damages from the destruction of the ships from the colonization fleet?” Felless asked. The male did not answer, perhaps because he was minding the road, perhaps because the question, as yet, had no good answer.

  Big Uglies stared at Felless and her driver as they went into the capital of the Greater German Reich. She stared, too, at what had to be the most bombastic architecture she’d ever seen. The Race, for the most part, built for reasons purely practical. It had not always been so, not quite, but even the very slow change the Empire knew had long since made other styles extinct.

  Not here. When the Deutsche put up buildings, they seemed to want to boast about how splendid they were. The driver explained what some of the buildings were: “That is the congress hall of the leading political faction here, the Nazis. It can hold fifty thousand. That sports palace holds four hundred thousand, though few are close enough to see well. This open area with the stands on either side is for ritualistic rallies. The Nazis have turned their ideology almost into a sort of emperor-worship. And now, as we go farther north, we come to the grand avenue, where our
embassy and those of other Tosevite not-empires are located.”

  Felless was not sure what made the avenue so grand. It was much wider than it needed to be, which sparked a thought. “These Big Uglies seem to equate size and grandeur,” she said.

  “Truth,” the driver agreed. Looking ahead, Felless saw a familiar, functional cube of a building in the middle of the absurdly ornate structures all around. The male pointed to it. “There is our embassy. By the Tosevites’ usages, it is reckoned part of the Empire. Our males guard it, not Big Uglies.”

  “This is a surprisingly sophisticated concept,” Felless said.

  “They insist on reciprocity, however,” the driver said in disparaging tones as he pulled to a halt in front of the building. “The soldiers of the independent not-empires protect their embassies in Cairo.”

  As far as Felless was concerned, that showed almost intolerable arrogance on the Big Uglies’ part. She got out of the motorcar, which was heated to a level she found comfortable, and hurried inside the embassy. The males of the conquest fleet had dusted off a most archaic word there: the Race had had no need for embassies since the Empire unified Home.

  Ambassador was a similarly obsolete term that turned out to be useful on Tosev 3. The Race’s ambassador to the Reich, a male named Veffani, soon summoned Felless to his office. “I greet you, Senior Researcher,” he said politely.

  “I greet you.” Felless eyed him with no small curiosity. “Tell me, superior sir, if you will—is that the body paint ambassadors wore in ancient days, or were you compelled to devise something new?”

  Pride rang in Veffani’s voice: “It is authentic. Research provided an image of an ambassador from long, long ago, and my body paint matches his in every particular.”

  “Excellent! I am glad to hear it,” Felless said. With some reluctance, she pulled her mind away from the distant past of Home and toward here and now on Tosev 3. “My thanks for giving me this opportunity to sit in on your meeting with the not-emperor of the Deutsche tomorrow. The experience I gain should be valuable.”