“Ruling Big Uglies should not be a matter for experiment.” Veffani laughed a wry laugh. “Too often, though, it is.”
“You would know better than I, superior sir.” Felless didn’t like flattering him, especially not in view of all the grief he’d caused her, but his question might prove important for the Race, and so she was willing to put aside her own feelings. And it wasn’t as if she were speaking an untruth; as a male from the conquest fleet, Veffani did have more experience with Tosevites than she. She went on, “Perhaps such an approach could aid in the ultimate assimilation of Tosev 3.”
“Perhaps it could,” Veffani said. “Perhaps we should find out. If you can draft a memorandum outlining your views, I will forward it to Cairo with a recommendation for serious consideration-and with your name noted, of course.”
“I thank you, superior sir,” Felless said. “It shall be done.”
“Excellent,” Veffani answered. “I have long known you are capable of excellent work. I am glad to see you realizing your potential. Good-bye.” His image vanished from her monitor.
He hadn’t even taken her to task for her ginger habit, not directly. Maybe he thought she’d given up tasting. If so, he was wrong. She still used the Tosevite herb whenever she got the chance. But she did try to be careful about giving her pheromones a chance to subside before appearing in public; she didn’t want to lay yet another clutch of eggs. She’d mated once since coming to France, but, to her relief, hadn’t become gravid as a result.
She’d got involved in the memorandum when the speaker by the door hissed for attention. Felless hissed, too, in annoyance. “Who is it?” she asked.
“I: Business Administrator Keffesh,” came the reply. “I would like to ask your assistance on a matter of some delicacy.”
Now what is that supposed to mean? Felless wondered irritably. She realized she’d have to find out. She could open the door without fear of embarrassment; she hadn’t tasted in several days. With a sigh, she rose from her desk and poked a fingerclaw into the door’s control panel. As it slid open, she said, “I greet you, Business Administrator.”
“And I greet you, superior female.” Keffesh assumed the posture of respect. That was polite, but not altogether necessary, not with his rank close to hers. It likely meant he wanted something from her, and so wanted her in a good mood. Well, he’d already come out and said he was after something.
“What is this delicate matter?” Felless asked.
Keffesh approached it obliquely. “Do I correctly understand that, in a psychological experiment before this latest round of fighting with the Deutsche, you awarded a Tosevite female named Monique Dutourd a large sum of money?”
“Before I answer, let me consult my records.” Felless did, then made the affirmative gesture. “Yes, that appears to be correct. Is it germane?”
“It is, superior female,” Keffesh answered. “You see, Monique Dutourd has the same mother and father as Pierre Dutourd, a Big Ugly with whom I have done a substantial amount of business. You surely know how, among the Tosevites, these connections count for a good deal.”
“Indeed I do.” Felless made the affirmative gesture again. “You do well to note their importance, I might add. But I do not quite see…”
“Let me explain,” Keffesh said. “Monique Dutourd is at the moment in a certain amount of difficulty with the Francais authorities, for she is accused of having had a sexual relationship with a Deutsch officer while the Deutsche occupied this subregion. The Francais, as you must also know, are seeking to destroy memories of the Deutsch occupation and to punish those who aided and comforted the occupiers.”
“Yes, I know that, too,” Felless said. “The Race encourages it, as it makes the Francais more likely to be dependent on us.”
“In principle, I approve of this,” Keffesh said. “In practice, Monique Dutourd’s difficulties make it harder for Pierre Dutourd to carry on his business.”
“That is unfortunate, perhaps, but…” Felless shrugged. “Why should it matter to me, or to the Race as a whole?” Before Keffesh could answer, she swung both eye turrets toward him. “Wait. What sort of business is this Big Ugly in?”
Now Keffesh hesitated. “Superior female, I told you this was a matter of some delicacy. I hope I may rely on your discretion.” He brought his hand up near his mouth and shot out his tongue, as if he were tasting ginger.
Had Felless not been in the habit of tasting, too, she probably wouldn’t have known what that meant. As things were, she said, “I believe I understand.”
“Ahh.” Relief filled Keffesh’s hiss. “I hoped you would. I had been given to understand that you would.” By that he no doubt meant he’d heard of Felless’ ginger-induced disgrace. He went on, “If you could arrange leniency from the Francais, superior female, you would not find me ungrateful. You would not find Pierre Dutourd ungrateful, either.”
What exactly was he offering? All the ginger she could taste? Something like that, surely. Her tailstump quivered in excitement. She tried to make it hold still. Doing her best to sound casual, she said, “I make no promises-who can make promises where Big Uglies are involved? — but I will see what I can do.”
“I thank you, superior female.” Keffesh went into the posture of respect again. “I could ask for nothing more. And now I shall not disturb you any further.” He left the chamber.
Felless returned to the memorandum. First things first, she told herself. But she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind kept going back to ginger.
At last, sighing, she saved the memorandum and started trying to telephone the Francais authorities. That didn’t prove easy; the links between the Race’s phone system and that of France were as yet tenuous. At last, though, she reached an official with the formidable title of Minister of Purification. “Do you speak the language of the Race?” she asked, wondering where she could find an interpreter if he didn’t.
But Joseph Darnand did, after a fashion. “I speak it but a little bit,” he replied, his accent thick but comprehensible. “Speak you slowly, if it please you. What is it that you want?”
“I want you to release a certain prisoner here in Marseille, a female named Monique Dutourd,” Felless told him.
She waited for the Big Ugly to say, It shall be done. But Darnand acted for all the world as if France were as much an independent not-empire as the Reich had been before the fighting. “One moment, if it please you,” he said. “I shall consult my records.”
“Very well.” Felless could hardly say no to that.
It took a lot longer than the promised moment. Felless reminded herself that Tosevite data-retrieval systems were much less efficient than those of the Race. She had to remind herself of that several times before Joseph Darnand finally returned to the line. He said, “I regret, Senior Researcher, that this will be difficult. Without doubt, this female carried on a sexual relationship with a Deutsch officer-and not just any Deutsch officer, but one from their secret police. Such betrayal must be punished, unless there is some vitally important reason to forgive.”
At first, Felless thought he was flat-out refusing. Such disobedience from a Big Ugly supposed to be dependent on the Race would have infuriated her. But then she saw a possible loophole in his words. “Is it not true that this particular female was forced into this sexual relationship against her will?” That counted for a great deal among Tosevites, she knew. Thanks to ginger and ingenious males, it was also beginning to matter to the Race on Tosev 3.
“She claims this,” Joseph Darnand said scornfully. “But what female in such circumstances would not claim it? Our interrogators do not believe it to be true, not at all.”
“But I-and the Race, speaking through me-do believe it to be true in this case.” Felless knew how far she was stretching things. She personally knew next to nothing about the case, and speaking through her was not the fleetlord or an ambassador but a ginger dealer. With a small hiss of annoyance at herself and her role here, she went on, “And this female has cooperated with us. We would strongly appreciate her release.” She added an emphatic cough for good measure.
After another long silence on the other end of the line, the Francais minister of purification sighed. “Oh, very well,” he said. “I shall give the appropriate orders. At least you, unlike the Deutsche, are polite enough to disguise your commands as requests.” He knew he was supposed to be subservient, then. Felless had wondered.
Having got what she wanted, she could afford to be gracious. “I thank you very much,” she said, wondering how much ginger Keffesh would pay her for her services.
“It is nothing.” By Joseph Darnand’s tone, it was much more than that. He growled something in his own language as he broke the connection. Felless didn’t mind annoying him. In fact, she rather enjoyed it.
“Comrade General Secretary, the ambassador from Finland is here,” Vyacheslav Molotov’s secretary said.
“Good. Very good,” Molotov said. “By all means show him into the office. I have looked forward to this interview for many years. At last, I am in the position to bring it off.”
“Good morning, Comrade General Secretary,” Urho Kekkonen said in fluent Russian. He took tea from the samovar in the corner of the room and helped himself to smoked salmon on rye bread.
“Good morning,” Molotov replied: enough socializing. “Now-has your government come to a decision about the contents of the note you received from the foreign commissariat of the Soviet Union?”