Down to Earth (30 page)

“That is indeed a truth.” The fleetlord’s emphatic cough told how much of a truth he thought it was. He followed the cough with a sigh. “And, of course, there is this central region of the main continental mass, where rebellion and resistance to veneration of the spirits of Emperors past skitter side by side.”

Pshing also sighed. “Such a pity, too, because this region really is among the most Homelike on the whole planet. I have actually come to enjoy Cairo’s climate. It could easily be that of a temperate region back on Home. Now if only the Tosevites were temperate.”

“Expect temperance from a Big Ugly and you are doomed to disappointment,” Atvar said. His mouth came open and he waggled his lower jaw from side to side in a wry laugh. “Expect anything from a Big Ugly and you are doomed to disappointment. What have we had on Tosev 3 but one surprise after another?”

“Nothing,” his adjutant replied. “We can only hope we have also succeeded in giving the Tosevites a few surprises.” He turned one eye turret back toward the map. “I truly do wonder what accounts for the differences in response to our edict.”

“Part of it, I suppose, springs from the differences in local superstition,” Atvar said, “but the role these differences play still baffles me. The followers of the Jewish superstition, for instance, have always been well disposed to us, but they are among those who most strongly resist venerating spirits of Emperors past. They bombard me with petitions and memorials. Even Moishe Russie does nothing but complain about it.”

“I know, Exalted Fleetlord,” Pshing said. “I have shielded you from several of his calls, too.”

“Have you? Well, I thank you,” Atvar said. “So many of the Big Uglies are so passionately convinced of their own correctness, they are willing to die, sometimes eager to die, to maintain it. This is one of the things that makes them such a delight to govern, as you must be aware.”

As if to underscore his words, the Tosevite howling that was the call to prayer of the Muslim superstition floated through the open windows of his office—except during the worst of the rioting, when he needed the armor glass as protection against assassins, he saw no point to closing those windows against the fine mild air of Cairo. Here and there, spatters of gunfire accompanied the howling. No, the locals were not reconciled to paying a tax for the privilege of keeping their foolish beliefs.

“With rational beings, lowering the tax, as we did, would also have lowered the resentment,” he grumbled. “With Big Uglies . . .”

Before he could go on fulminating, the telephone started making a racket. At Atvar’s gesture, Pshing answered it. No sooner had the caller’s image appeared on the screen than the adjutant assumed the posture of respect, saying, “I greet you, Exalted Fleetlord.”

“And I greet you, Pshing,” Reffet said, “but I need to speak with your principal at once—at once, do you hear me?”

“One moment, please,” Pshing replied, and muted the sound. Still down in the posture of respect, he asked Atvar, “What is your pleasure, Exalted Fleetlord?”

Speaking with his opposite number from the colonization fleet was not exactly Atvar’s pleasure, but it was sometimes necessary. Maybe this would be one of those times. He strode up to the telephone, touched the sound control, and said, “I greet you, Reffet. How now?”

“How now indeed?” Reffet returned. “How many more males and females from the colonization fleet will face assault and perhaps assassination because of your efforts to tax Tosevite superstitions?”

No, Atvar did not care for the fleetlord from the colonization fleet, not even a little bit. With a certain sardonic relish, he replied, “You have complained because we did not, in your view, do enough to bring Tosev 3 into the Empire. Now that we are taking a step to do exactly that, you are complaining again. You cannot have it on both forks of the tongue at once.”

“Answer my question and spare me the rhetoric, if you would be so kind,” Reffet said. “We are suffering. Can you not perceive that?”

Unimpressed, Atvar answered, “My own males, the males of the conquest fleet, are suffering more, I remind you. They are the ones who actually have to enforce the new edict, and who face the dangers inherent in doing so. Colonists, if they are prudent, should not be at great risk. They do need to remember that Big Uglies, even in areas we rule, are not fully acclimated to us.”

“Are, in other words, wild beasts,” Reffet said, sarcastic in his own right. “Or would be wild beasts, did they not have the cleverness of intelligent beings. And either you do not know what you are talking about in respect to relative danger or you have not heard of the latest Tosevite outrage, word of which just reached me.”

Atvar knew a sinking feeling in the middle of his gut. He’d known that feeling too many times on Tosev 3; he kept hoping not to have it again, and kept being disappointed. “I have not heard the latest,” he admitted. “You had better tell me.”

“Tell you I shall,” Reffet said. “One of the new towns in this region of the main continental mass, the one near the attacked desalination plants”—an image on the screen showed the area known as the Arabian Peninsula—“has just suffered a devastating attack. A Tosevite drove a large truck loaded with explosives into the center of the place and touched them off, killing himself and an undetermined but large number of males and females. Physical damage is also extensive.”

“By the Emperor!” Atvar said, and cast down his eyes. “No, I had not yet heard. The only thing I will say in aid of this is that it is cursedly difficult to thwart an individual willing to pay with his own life to accomplish some goal. This is not the least of the problems we face in attempting to consolidate our control on this world, for the Big Uglies are far more willing to resort to such behavior than any other species we know.”

“They are, no doubt, especially willing to resort to it when you incite them,” Reffet said. As he spoke, words crawled across the bottom of the screen, informing Atvar of the bombing incident all over again. Atvar read them with one eye while looking at Reffet with the other.

A detail caught the attention of the fleetlord of the conquest fleet. “How did this Big Ugly manage to drive his vehicle into the center of the new town without being searched?”

“The inhabitants must have assumed he was there to deliver something or perform a service,” Reffet answered. “One does not commonly believe a Big Ugly in a truck is come on a mission of murder.”

“In that part of Tosev 3, with the present stresses, why not?” Atvar asked. “The males of the conquest fleet cannot do everything for you, Reffet. A checkpoint outside the town might have saved the colonists much sorrow.”

“Colonists are not soldiers,” Reffet said.

“Colonists can certainly be police,” Atvar answered, “and we have already begun to discuss the need for colonists to become soldiers. The males of the conquest fleet cannot carry the whole burden forever. Before all that long, we shall grow old and die. If the Race has no soldiers left after that, who will keep the Big Uglies from eating us up?”

“If we have a permanent Soldiers’ Time on this world, how can we be a proper part of the Empire?” Reffet returned. “The meaning of the Empire is that we have soldiers only in emergencies and for conquests.”

“When is it not an emergency on Tosev 3?” Atvar asked, a question for which Reffet could have no good answer. “Before the Empire unified Home, it always had soldiers, for it always needed them. That seems to be true on this world as well. You may regret it—I certainly regret it. But can you deny it?”

“Colonists will scream if you seek to make some of them into soldiers,” the fleetlord of the colonization fleet said. “Can you deny that?”

“How loud are they screaming because of those killed or wounded in the new town?” Atvar asked.

Reffet sighed. “This is not the world they were told to anticipate when they went into cold sleep back on Home. Many of them are still having difficulty adjusting to that. I understand, for I am still having difficulty adjusting to it myself.”

“Really? I never would have noticed,” Atvar said. It sounded like praise. Reffet knew it wasn’t. He glared at Atvar. The fleet-lord of the conquest fleet went on, “Colonists can deal with Tosev 3 as they imagined it to be, or they can deal with it as it is. I know which of those courses is likely to produce more satisfactory results. I wish more colonists would come to the same conclusion, rather than screaming because things are not as they would prefer.”

“That is unfair,” Reffet said. “We have labored long and hard to establish ourselves on this planet since our arrival here. You do not give us enough credit for it.”

“And you do not give us enough credit for all the labor—yes, and all the dying, too—we of the conquest fleet did so you would have a world you could colonize, even in part,” Atvar replied. “All we get is blame. Who back on Home would have thought the Big Uglies would have either trucks or explosives to load aboard them? And yet you colonists shout abuse at us for botching the war. You still cannot see how lucky we were to come away with a draw.”

“My males and females are not meant to be soldiers,” Reffet said stubbornly.

“Are they then meant to be victims?” Atvar inquired. “That seems to be the only other choice. I grieve that this terrorist assault against them succeeded. They will have to play a part if they want to keep others from succeeding.”

“You ask too much,” Reffet said.

“You give too little,” Atvar retorted. In perfect mutual loathing, they both broke the connection at the same time.

As Straha’s driver pulled to a halt in front of the house Ristin and Ullhass shared, the Big Ugly said, “Well, Shiplord, it seems as though you will have your chance to talk to Sam Yeager here instead of having to go all the way to Gardena.”

“Why do you say that?” Straha peered through the windows in the front part of the house. He did not see Yeager or any other Tosevite.

The driver barked laughter. “Because that is his automobile there, parked just in front of us.”

“Oh.” Straha felt foolish. He had never noticed what sort of motorcar Yeager drove. All he had noticed about American motorcars was that they came in far more varieties than seemed necessary. He undid his safety belt and opened the door. “Will you come in and join us? Ullhass asked that you be included in the invitation, if you so desired.”

“I thank you, but no,” the Big Ugly answered. “For one thing, I do not much care for crowds, whether of the Race or of Tosevites. And, for another, I can do a better job of protecting you from out here than from in there. I am assuming you will be in less danger from guests than from uninvited strangers.”

“I believe that is a valid assumption, yes,” Straha said. “If it is not, I have more and more diverse difficulties than I would have thought. I shall return in due course. I hope you will not be bored waiting for me.”

“It is my duty,” the driver said. “Enjoy yourself, Shiplord.”

Straha slammed the car door shut and headed for the house. He intended to do just that. Ullhass and Ristin always had good alcohol and plenty of ginger. They also had interesting guests, no matter what the driver thought. Because they were only small-scale traitors, the Race had long since forgiven them. Males and females from the land under the Race’s control could visit here without opprobrium, where they would have caused a scandal by coming to see Straha.

At the doorway, Ullhass folded himself into the posture of respect. “I greet you, Shiplord,” he said, as deferential as if Straha still commanded the
206th Emperor Yower.
“I am always pleased when you honor my home by your presence.”

“I thank you for inviting me,” Straha replied. On the whole, that was true: these gatherings were as close as he could come to the society of his own kind. And if Ullhass, like Ristin, chose to wear red-white-and-blue body paint that showed he was a U.S. prisoner of war in place of the proper markings of the Race . . . well, he’d been doing that for a long time now, and Straha could overlook if not forgive it.

“Come in, come in,” Ullhass urged, and stood aside to let Straha do just that. “You have been here before—you will know where we keep the alcohol and the herb and the food. Help yourself to anything you think will please you. We are also doing some outdoor cooking in back of the house, with meats both from Tosev 3 and from Home.”

Sure enough, odors of smoke and of hot meat reached Straha’s scent receptors. “The smells are intriguing indeed,” he said. “I must be careful not to slobber on your floor.” Ullhass laughed.

Straha went into the kitchen and poured himself some rum—like most of the Race, he had no use for whiskey. He loaded a small plate with Greek olives and salted nuts and potato chips, then went out through the open sliding glass door into the back yard. Sam Yeager stood out there offering helpful advice to Ristin, who was cremating meat on a grill above a charcoal fire.

“I greet you, Shiplord,” Yeager said to Straha, and raised his glass in a Tosevite salute. “Good to see you.”

“How can you stand to drink that stuff?” Straha asked—Yeager’s glass did hold whiskey. “What is it good for but removing paint?”

The Big Ugly sipped the nasty stuff. “Removing troubles,” he answered, and sipped again.

That startled a laugh out of Straha, who took a drink of rum himself. “Well, but why not remove troubles with something that tastes good?” he asked.

“I like the way whiskey tastes just fine,” Yeager answered. “I have spent a lot of time getting used to it, and I see no point in wasting the accomplishment.”

That made Straha laugh, too; he enjoyed Yeager’s off-center way of looking at the world. “Have it as you will, then,” he said. “Every beffel goes to its own hole, or so the saying has it.”

“Befflem, yes.” Yeager’s head bobbed up and down. “All of your animals here now. Some of them smell very tasty.” He pointed back to the grill on which Ristin was cooking. “But others . . . Do you know about the rabbits in Australia, Shiplord?”

“I know what rabbits are: those hopping furry creatures with long flaps of skin channeling sound to their hearing diaphragms,” Straha answered. Yeager nodded once more. Straha continued, “And I know of Australia, because it is one of our principal centers of colonization—not that I will ever get to see as much, of course.” For a moment, his bitterness at exile showed through. “But, I confess, I do not know of any connection between rabbits and Australia.”