“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.”
“Truth,” Felless said. “But can we get him released for this project?”
“I cannot,” the male said. “You may have better connections than I do.”
“Tell Monique Dutourd I will try to arrange her kinsmale’s release,” Felless said with more than a little trepidation. “Tell her I can guarantee nothing, for I am not sure how far my influence will reach. Ask her if she would consider discussing these matters with Ttomalss even if I cannot arrange this other Big Ugly’s release.”
She had no great hope for that. She knew only too well that the Tosevites took an affront against their kinsfolk as an affront against themselves. But, to her surprise, Monique Dutourd replied, “Yes, I would be willing, though I am grateful for your making the effort to help him.”
“I will do what I can,” Felless said, hoping the Tosevite female could not hear her relief. “I hope you will also seek other possible interpreters.”
“It shall be done,” the Big Ugly said in the language of the Race-that was one phrase a great many Tosevites knew, even if they knew no more.
After getting off the phone with Monique Dutourd, Felless thought hard about ignoring her promise. Having anything public to do with ginger was all too likely to get her in trouble with the Race’s authorities. But she wouldn’t have minded seeing Pierre Dutourd free, either.
And so, despite misgivings, she telephoned Ambassador Veffani. He was as suspicious as she’d known he would be. “You want to set that rogue free to cause trouble for the Race again?” he demanded. “How much ginger will he give you in exchange for this freedom?”
“I have not spoken with him at all, superior sir. How could I?” Felless tried to make herself the very image of righteousness. “His name was mentioned as a possible interpreter by a Tosevite historian whom I contacted at the request of Senior Researcher Ttomalss. You are welcome to confirm that with Ttomalss, if you like.”
“Believe me, I shall,” Veffani said. “How is it that a notorious ginger smuggler came up in a conversation with a Tosevite scholar? I find this hard to believe.”
“Find it however you please, superior sir,” Felless answered. “The scholar and the smuggler happen to share a mother and father. You know how Big Uglies are in matters relating to kinship.”
Veffani let out an unhappy hiss. “I do indeed. It is that sort of difficulty, is it? And I suppose the Tosevite scholar will have nothing to do with us unless we release the Tosevite criminal?”
Monique Dutourd hadn’t said anything of the sort. Felless didn’t care to lie outright to Veffani, but she did want to accomplish her own goals as well as Ttomalss’. “You know how Big Uglies are,” she repeated, and let the ambassador draw his own conclusions.
“So I do,” Veffani said with a sigh. “Well, perhaps we can arrange to release him long enough to do the necessary work and then return him to prison.” He caught himself before Felless could say anything. “No, the odds are it would not work. Let me speak with Ttomalss and find out just how important his work is. If he makes the request for this translator, I can release the Big Ugly with a better conscience.”
“I thank you, superior sir,” said Felless, who hadn’t expected to gain even that much from the ambassador.
“I am not nearly sure you are welcome,” Veffani answered. “As I say, I shall consult with Ttomalss. He has the respect and admiration of the fleetlord-and he has never been known to taste ginger.” He broke the connection.
Felless glared at the monitor. No, Ttomalss didn’t taste. That hadn’t kept him from mating with her when she tasted. Not tasting hadn’t kept Veffani from mating with her when she tasted, either. When females tasted, they would emit pheromones and males would mate with them. That, of course, was the problem with the herb.
She wondered how the two ginger-addicted members of the Race who’d sought an exclusive mating contract with each other were doing among the Tosevite barbarians of the United States. She didn’t approve of what they had done. Big Uglies were supposed to take on the customs and usages of the Race, not the other way round. No, she didn’t approve. But even so…
Ginger, she thought. Without the herb, the Race would have had a much easier time on Tosev 3. Easier, yes, but not nearly so enjoyable. The urge for a taste surged up within her. She tried to resist, but not very hard. And hadn’t that been the way she’d dealt with ginger ever since her first taste? She hurried to the desk, took out the vial, poured some of the powdered herb into her palm, and let her tongue dart out.
Delight shot through her. So did a feeling of brilliance, of omnipotence. She’d learned the hard way it was only a feeling, not reality. The first thing she had to do with that supposed brilliance was figure out a reason for staying here inside her chamber till she wasn’t emitting pheromones any more. If she failed there, she would have males mating with her-and she would have endless trouble from Ambassador Veffani.
She didn’t care. No, she did care-but not enough to keep her from tasting. Never enough to keep her from tasting. What could she do while she was stuck in here? Research Tosevite history, she thought. Why not? It has suddenly become relevant, and I can claim it is something I truly need to know. Who are, or were, these Romans, anyway? She began seeing what, if anything, the Race’s data stores could tell her.
When the telephone rang, Mordechai Anielewicz hoped it would be the landlord with whom he’d spoken a couple of days before. There was a sellers’ market for flats in Przemysl these days, as there was throughout Poland. But he did have hopes of moving into a bigger place, which he knew his family sorely needed. He hurried to the phone and answered with an eager, “Hello?”
But it wasn’t the landlord, who was a big, bluff fellow named Szymanski. Instead, he heard the hisses and pops of a Lizard’s voice: “Do I speak to Mordechai Anielewicz, the leader of those who follow the Jewish superstition in Poland?”
“You do,” Anielewicz replied in the language of the Race. “And may I ask to whom I speak now?” He had trouble telling one Lizard’s voice from another’s.
“You may indeed, Mordechai Anielewicz,” the Lizard replied. “I am Gorppet, whom you met outside Greifswald, and with whom you have spoken since. I greet you.”
“And I greet you,” Mordechai said. “This will have something to do with the missing explosive-metal bomb, unless I miss my guess.”
“Truth-it will,” Gorppet agreed. “I would like you to do me a favor that, I believe, will make its recovery more likely.”
“I will be glad to do so,” Anielewicz answered, “as long as it is nothing that endangers any of my fellow Jews except for the ones who have taken the bomb.”
“I do not believe that will be a problem,” Gorppet said.
“Go ahead, then,” Mordechai said. “I shall have to be the final judge of that, though. I warn you now, to avoid misunderstandings later.”
“I understand,” the Lizard said. “You may perhaps be interested to learn that we have recruited your acquaintance, the Deutsch officer named Johannes Drucker, to provide us with information and work with us from his new post in Flensburg.”
“Have you?” Mordechai said. “How did you manage that?” He had trouble imagining Drucker working with the Race. But one possible way to get the rocket pilot’s cooperation crossed his mind. “Did you threaten to tell his superiors that he and I worked together for a little while without trying to slaughter each other?”