Homeward Bound (45 page)

He was glad of that, too. Imagine putting a sexual liaison ahead of an audience with the Emperor! If that didn’t prove how different the Tosevites were, what would?

He did his best to look on the bright side of things. Sooner or later, the truth would come out. His store of data would grow. The bright side turned darker. No matter how much data he had, would he ever really understand?

The Americans had been living in one another’s pockets ever since they got to Home. They had few secrets from one another. Keeping secrets wasn’t easy, and they hardly ever bothered. Even so, not everything got talked about right out in the open. Karen Yeager was probably the last one to realize Major Coffey and Kassquit had started sleeping together.

When she did, she was horrified. “Isn’t that treason or something?” she demanded of her husband.

“I doubt it,” he answered. “I can’t see Frank giving secrets away to the Lizards no matter what. Can you? It would take a lot more than a what-do-you-call-it—a honey trap, that’s what they say—to get him to do anything like that.”

Karen considered. Reluctantly, she decided Jonathan was right. She made herself an almost-vodka, chilling it with ice she’d fought so hard to win. “Well, maybe so,” she said. “But it’s still disgusting. She’s hardly even human.”

Jonathan didn’t say anything. That was no doubt smart on his part. Karen remembered, just too late, that he hadn’t found anything disgusting about sleeping with Kassquit. If men could, they would, or most of them would.

“She really isn’t,” Karen said, as if Jonathan had contradicted her.

“I know she’s not,” he answered uncomfortably. “But she does try. It makes her more . . . more pathetic than if she didn’t. Part of her wants to be—I think a lot of her wants to be. But she doesn’t know how. How could she, seeing the way she was raised? She’s crazy, yeah, but she could be a lot crazier. And you know what the saddest thing is?”

“Tell me.” Ominous echoes filled Karen’s voice.

Her husband usually heeded those echoes. Not today. He spoke as if he hadn’t heard them: “The saddest thing is, she knows how much she’s missing. And she knows she’s never going to get it—not from us, and not from the Lizards, either. How do you go on after you’ve figured something like that out?”

“She seems to have found some way to amuse herself,” Karen said.

“That’s not fair, hon,” Jonathan said. “If you hadn’t done anything for twenty years—and I don’t think Kassquit has, not since me—wouldn’t you grab the chance if it came along?”

Karen thought about twenty years of celibacy. Going without was easier for most women than for most men, but even so. . . . “Maybe,” she said grudgingly.

No matter how grudgingly she said it, Jonathan had to know how big an admission that was. “Give her a break, will you?” he said. “She needs all the breaks she can get, and she hasn’t caught very many of them.”

“Maybe,” Karen said again, even more grudgingly than before. “But what about Frank? What’s he thinking?
Is
he thinking?”

“There are four women on this planet,” Jonathan said. “As far as I know, he’s never come on to you or Linda. If he has, nobody’s said anything about it.”

“He hasn’t with me, anyway,” Karen said.

“All right, then. Let’s figure he hasn’t with Linda, either,” Jonathan said. “Melanie Blanchard just got here. That leaves . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to.

Every word he said made good logical sense. But this wasn’t a matter for logic—or it didn’t feel like one to Karen, anyhow. When she said, “It’s Kassquit!” she summed up everything that wasn’t logical about it.

Jonathan only shrugged. “I can’t do anything about it. I haven’t done anything about it, either, and you know darn well I haven’t. If you don’t like it, take it up with Frank. And good luck to you.”

He wasn’t often so blunt. Karen wished he hadn’t been this time, either. She said, “I couldn’t do that!”

“Okay, fine,” her husband said. “In that case, wouldn’t you say it’s none of your beeswax? And if it isn’t, what are you worrying about?”

“Talk about not being fair!” Karen exclaimed. “How long have you known without telling me?”

“A while,” he said, which told her less than she wanted to know. He went on, “If you watch them, you can kind of tell. It’s the way they look at each other when they think nobody else is paying any attention.”

Karen had always paid as little attention to Kassquit as she could while staying polite, or maybe even a little less than that. And she evidently hadn’t paid as much to Frank Coffey as she should have. “I still have trouble believing it,” she said.

“Oh, it’s true,” Jonathan said. “If it weren’t, why would Frank have started taking rubbers from the medical supplies?”

For that, Karen had no answer. She did wonder how her husband knew Coffey was doing that. Had he actually seen him? Or did he know how many he and Tom de la Rosa were likely to use, and figure the excess must have gone to Frank? Karen decided she wasn’t curious enough about that to ask.

She said, “I still don’t think it can be good for what we’re trying to do here. It’s . . . sleeping with the enemy, that’s what it is.”

“Sorry, hon, but I don’t think you’re right,” Jonathan told her. “Anything that keeps us from going nuts here is pretty good, far as I’m concerned. Kassquit’s no more Mata Hari than she is Martha Washington. If anybody gives anything away in pillow talk, she’s likely to be the one.”

He was altogether too likely to be right about that. Because he was, Karen didn’t try to contradict him. She just said, “The whole idea is repulsive, that’s all.”

Jonathan said nothing at all. No, sleeping with Kassquit hadn’t repelled him. That wasn’t anything Karen didn’t already know; after all, he’d done it before they were married. Since he hadn’t tried doing it since, she didn’t suppose she ought to mention it. But biting her tongue wasn’t easy.

In the face of that silence from her husband, she said, “I’m going down to the refectory. It’s just about time for lunch.”

“Go ahead,” Jonathan answered. “I’m not hungry yet. I’ll come down in a while. I’ve got some paperwork I need to catch up on.”

Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. Karen wouldn’t have bet one way or the other. Plainly, though, he didn’t want to go on talking about Kassquit and Frank Coffey. Karen didn’t see what she could do about it short of ramming the topic down his throat. That wouldn’t accomplish anything but starting a fight. Life was too short . . . wasn’t it? With a twinge of regret, she decided it was.

“I’ll see you later, then,” she said. “I
am
hungry.” That wasn’t a lie. She left the room and walked down the hall to the elevators.

When one arrived, it announced itself with a hiss, not a bell. She wondered if she would ever hear a bell again when a door opened. Sometimes small things made all the difference between feeling at home and being forcibly reminded you were on an alien world. She got into the elevator. It was smoother than any Earthly model she’d ever known.

She braced herself for more alienness in the refectory. The food there, or most of it, wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t what she was used to, either. She supposed a Japanese traveling through South Dakota had the same problem. If so, she sympathized.

Some of the booths had been adapted to accommodate humans. The adaptations were clumsy but functional. A Lizard came up to her with a menu. “Here are today’s offerings, superior Tosevite,” the server said.

“I thank you.” Karen read through it. “Ah, you have the azwaca cutlets again. Bring me those, please.”

“It shall be done, superior Tosevite. And to drink?”

“The ippa-fruit juice. Chilled, if you have it.” Ippa-fruit juice had a citrusy tartness to it.

“We do.” The server made the affirmative gesture. “We would not for ourselves, but we have seen how fond of cold things you Tosevites are. Please wait. I will take your order to the cooks. It will not be long.”

“Good,” Karen said. For the moment, she had the refectory to herself. That suited her. She wasn’t in the mood to face anyone else just then anyhow. She wished the refectory were cooler. She wished all of Home were cooler.

Of course, what she wished had nothing to do with how things really worked. She knew that, even if she didn’t like it very much. The Race had cooled the refectory even this far only to accommodate her kind. The Lizards liked things hot. The heat of a medium summer’s day in Los Angeles wasn’t heat to them at all. It was chill.

The server brought the ippa-fruit juice. It wasn’t as cold as lemonade would have been back on Earth, but it was chilled. The tangy sweetness pleased her. Had the Race brought ippa fruit to Earth? If so, a trade might easily spring up. Plenty of people would like it.
I’ll have to ask Tom,
she thought. If anyone here would know, he was the man.

When she finished the juice, the server refilled her glass from a pitcher. In a lot of ways, restaurants on Earth and Home were similar. “Your meal will come very shortly,” he assured her two or three times, sounding much like a human waiter anxious to preserve his tip. The Americans didn’t need to worry about tipping, though, not while they ate in the hotel refectory. Karen didn’t even know if Lizards were in the habit of tipping. If they were, the government took care of it here.

The server had just brought her the cutlets—and some roasted tubers on the side—when Kassquit walked into the refectory. Karen nodded, not in a friendly way (that was beyond her), but at least politely. She wanted to see how Kassquit would behave and what, if anything, she had to say for herself.

Kassquit nodded back with that same wary politeness. “I greet you,” the half-alien woman said.

“And I greet you,” Karen answered. “I hope you are well and happy?”

“I am well, yes. I thank you for asking.” Kassquit considered the rest of the question. “Happy? Who can say for certain? There certainly were times in the past when I was more unhappy.”

What was that supposed to mean? “Ah?” Karen said: the most noncommittal noise she could make, but one that invited Kassquit to keep talking if she wanted to.

She must have, for she went on, “I suppose even ordinary wild Tosevites are often unhappy when they are young, for they do not yet know how they will fit into their society.” She paused. Karen made the affirmative gesture; that was true enough. Kassquit continued, “It was, I think, worse for me, for I knew I did not fit in at all, not in biology, not in appearance, not in speaking—not in anything, really—and I was often reminded of this. No, I was not happy.”

Karen felt ashamed of disliking Kassquit. No other human being in the history of the world had gone through what Kassquit had.
And a good thing, too,
Karen thought. “And now?” she asked.

“Now I have a place of my own. I have some acceptance—even the Emperor does not find me altogether unworthy. And I am not completely cut off from my biological heritage, as I was for so long.”

Again, what did she mean? That she and Frank Coffey were fooling around, as Jonathan had said? Karen couldn’t think of anything else that seemed likely. She surprised herself when she nodded again and said, “Good.”

A
tvar heard from Ttomalss that Kassquit and the wild Big Ugly had become physically intimate. “We instructed her not to do this. What is it likely to mean, Senior Researcher?” he inquired. “Will she abandon us for the Americans?”

“I do not believe so, Exalted Fleetlord,” Ttomalss replied. “This is just another complication, not—I hope—a catastrophe.”

“Just another complication.” Atvar let out a weary, hissing sigh. “I have heard those words or words much like them too often for my peace of mind.” He laughed. “I remember when I once had peace of mind.”

“Before you went to Tosev 3?” Ttomalss asked.

“Certainly,” Atvar said. “Not afterwards, by the spirits of Emperors past!” He cast down his eye turrets. “Never afterwards.”

“I believe that, Exalted Fleetlord,” the psychologist said. “And, all things considered, you were fairly lucky. The Big Uglies never captured you.”

“That is a truth.” Atvar had forgotten about Ttomalss’ ordeal. He returned to the business before him: “Ironic that Kassquit should form this attachment so soon after her audience with the Emperor.”

“Indeed,” Ttomalss said morosely. “I asked her about this myself, in fact. She said the audience was a source of pride, but the liaison was a source of satisfaction. Tosevite sexuality is different from ours, and there is nothing much to be done about it.”

That was another truth. The Race had wasted a lot of time and energy on Tosev 3 trying to get the Big Uglies to change their customs before deciding it
was
wasting its time and energy. The Tosevites were not going to change what they did, any more than the Race would.

The fleetlord wished that thought hadn’t occurred to him. Ginger had made a significant part of the Race change its sexual patterns. Atvar let out a sudden, thoughtful hiss. “Do you know, Senior Researcher, I believe we may have missed a chance on Tosev 3.”

“In what way?” Ttomalss asked.

“I wonder if, through drugs, we might make the Big Uglies’ sexual patterns more like ours and those of the other species in the Empire,” Atvar said. “As far as I know, this was never investigated.”

“I believe you are right, Exalted Fleetlord,” Ttomalss said. “The work might prove worthwhile. If you send a message now, researchers there can begin experimenting before too many more years have passed.”

“I may propose that,” Atvar said. “If they find such a drug, well and good. If they fail to find it, we are no worse off.”

“Just so.” Ttomalss made the affirmative gesture. “And now, if you will excuse me . . . I did want to let you know about Kassquit’s situation.”

“For which I thank you.” Atvar laughed again, sourly. “Though why I should thank you for exercising my liver is beyond me. This is one of those times when politeness and truth part company, I fear.”

“I understand.” Ttomalss left the fleetlord’s room.

The psychologist could go. The problem he had posed would stay. He had to be annoyed that Kassquit would choose her biological heritage over her cultural one. As far as Atvar could tell, though, that was the extent of Ttomalss’ annoyance. He didn’t have to worry about the effect Kassquit’s possible shift of allegiance would have on negotiations with the wild Big Uglies.

Atvar thought about commanding her to stop mating with Frank Coffey. Only the suspicion—the near certainty—that she would ignore such a command held him back. She was no less headstrong than any wild Tosevite. Stubbornness, especially about sexual matters, was in their blood. He also thought about removing her from his party and sending her halfway round the world.

He could do that. He had the authority. But it would mean depriving the Race of Kassquit’s insights into the way Tosevites functioned. At the moment, she was demonstrating how they functioned. Atvar wondered if that had even occurred to her. He doubted it. Tosevites let their sexual desires dictate their behavior to a degree the Race found ridiculous and unimaginable—except during mating season, at which time males and females had their minds on other things.

“No,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. He would keep Kassquit here in Sitneff. That might mean he would have to weigh carefully anything she said about the American Tosevites. Fair enough. Weighing data was something he was good at. He realized he would also have to weigh what he got from Ttomalss, who would not be anything close to objective about his former ward.

Sending a message to Tosev 3 was another matter. Atvar no longer had authority to do it on his own. He hadn’t since his recall. But altering the Big Uglies’ sexuality might be important. He was even willing to go through channels to make sure the idea reached the distant colony.

He was willing, yes, but he wasn’t enthusiastic. Years of handling affairs on Tosev 3 himself as the Emperor’s autonomous viceroy had left him impatient with the idea of gaining others’ permission before acting. He was convinced he knew enough to do what needed doing on his own. Anyone who thought otherwise had to be misguided.

Of course, the entire cumbersome bureaucracy here on Home had eventually decided otherwise. Atvar remained convinced those bureaucrats were fools. When he talked to them here, he did his best not to show it. Ttomalss was right—this was an important idea. It was even more important than getting even with the bunglers who’d recalled him. So he told himself, anyhow.

His Majesty’s chief scientific adviser was a female named Yendiss. She heard Atvar out and then asked, “What assurance do you have that researchers can actually discover or synthesize a drug of this sort?”

“Assurance? Why, none,” Atvar answered. “But I have one contrary assurance to offer you, superior female.”

“Oh?” Yendiss said. “And that is?”

“If researchers do not look for a drug of this sort, they are guaranteed not to find it,” Atvar said.

In the monitor, Yendiss’ eye turrets swung sharply toward him. “Are you being sarcastic, Fleetlord?” she demanded.

“Not at all.” Atvar made the negative gesture. “I thought I was stating a simple and obvious truth. If such a drug is there to be found, we ought to find it. Making the Big Uglies more like us would reduce some acute sociological strains on Tosev 3. It would make assimilating the Tosevites much easier. Is that not an important consideration?”

The scientific adviser did not answer directly. Instead, she asked, “Do you have any idea how expensive this research might be?”

“No, superior female,” Atvar answered resignedly. “But whatever it costs, I am convinced making it will be cheaper than not making it.”

“Send me a memorandum,” Yendiss said. “Make it as detailed as possible, listing costs and benefits.” By the way she said that, she plainly thought costs the more important consideration. “Once I have something in writing, I can submit it to specialists for their analysis and input.”

“It shall be done.” Atvar broke the connection. He let out a loud, frustrated hiss. The Race had done business like this for a hundred thousand years. That was fine—when the business had nothing to do with the Big Uglies. How many years would go by before the specialists made up their minds? Yendiss wouldn’t care. She would say getting the right answer was the most important thing.

Sometimes, though, the right answer seemed obvious. Getting it quickly began to matter. Anyone who’d dealt with Tosev 3 knew that. How many centuries had the Race spent preparing the conquest fleet after its probe showed that the Big Uglies were ripe for the taking? Enough so that, by the time the conquest fleet arrived, the Tosevites weren’t ripe any more.

Would this be more of the same? “Not if I have anything to do with it,” Atvar declared, and made another call.

Before long, the imperial protocol master looked out of a monitor at him. “I greet you, Fleetlord,” Herrep said. “I doubt this is strictly a social call, so what do you want of me?”

“I would like to speak with the Emperor for a little while,” Atvar replied. “This has to do with affairs on Tosev 3.”

“Are you trying to leap over some functionary who obstructs you?” Herrep asked.

“In a word, yes.”

“His Majesty rarely lets himself be used that way,” the protocol master warned.

“If he refuses, I am no worse off, though the Race may be,” Atvar said. “He does see the Big Uglies as a real problem for the Race, though, which not many here seem to do. Please forward my request to him, if you would be so kind. Let him decide. I believe it is important.”

“Very well, Fleetlord,” Herrep said. “Please note that I guarantee nothing. The decision is in the grip of his Majesty’s fingerclaws.”

“I understand, and I thank you,” Atvar answered. “Whatever he chooses, I shall accept.”
Of course I shall. What choice have I got?

The protocol master broke the connection. Too late, Atvar realized Herrep hadn’t said when he would forward the request to the Emperor or how long it might be till Risson called back—if he did. A delay of a few days wouldn’t matter. A delay of a few months or even a few years wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary for the Race. That kind of delay might be unfortunate, but who without firsthand experience of the Big Uglies would realize exactly how unfortunate it might be?

Atvar’s telephone hissed frequently. Whenever it did, he hoped it would be the Emperor returning his call. Whenever it wasn’t, he felt an unreasonable stab of disappointment. And then, four days after he’d spoken with Herrep, it was. The female on the line spoke without preamble: “Assume the posture of respect so you may hear his Majesty’s words.”

“It shall be done,” Atvar replied, and he did it. The female disappeared from the monitor. The 37th Emperor Risson’s image replaced her. Atvar said, “I greet you, your Majesty. I am honored to have the privilege of conversation with you.”

“Rise, Fleetlord. Tell me what is on your mind,” Risson replied. He sometimes stood on hardly more ceremony than the Big Uglies did. “Herrep seems to think you have come up with something interesting.”

“I hope so, your Majesty.” Atvar explained.

Risson heard him out, then asked, “What are the chances for success?”

“I would not care to guess about them, because I have no idea,” Atvar replied. “But they must be much greater than zero: our biochemists are skilled, and on Tosev 3 they will have studied the Big Uglies’ metabolism for many years. If we do not make the effort, what hope do we have of success? That I can guess: none.”

“Truth,” Risson said. “Very well. You have persuaded me. I shall issue the necessary orders to pass this idea on to our colony on Tosev 3. Let us see what the colonists do with it. If the Big Uglies were more like us, they would certainly be easier to assimilate. We should do all we can to try to bring that about.”

“I think you are right, your Majesty, and I thank you very much,” Atvar said. “You will also have seen for yourself by now how little inclined toward compromise the wild Big Uglies are. This may eventually give us a new weapon against them, one we can use when we would hesitate to bring out our bombs.”

“Let us hope so, anyhow,” the Emperor said. “Is there anything more?” When Atvar made the negative gesture, Risson broke the connection.
He
does
take the Big Uglies seriously,
Atvar thought.
If only more males and females did.

Dr. Melanie Blanchard poked and prodded Sam Yeager. She looked in his ears and down his throat. She listened to his chest and lungs. She took his blood pressure. She put on a rubber glove and told him to bend over. “Are you sure we need a doctor here?” he asked.

She laughed. “I’ve never known anybody who enjoys this,” she said. “I do know it’s necessary, especially for a man your age. Or do you really want to mess around with the possibility of prostate cancer?”

With a sigh, Sam assumed the position. The examination was just as much fun as he remembered. He said, “Suppose I’ve got it. What can you do about it here?”

“X rays, certainly,” Dr. Blanchard answered. “Chemotherapy, possibly, if we can get the Race to synthesize the agents we’d need. Or maybe surgery, with Lizard physicians assisting me. I’m sure some of them would be fascinated.” She took off the glove and threw it away. “Doesn’t look like we need to worry about that, though.”

“Well, good.” Sam straightened up and did his best to restore his dignity. “How do I check out?”

“You’re pretty good,” she said. “I’d like it if your blood pressure were a little lower than 140/90, but that’s not bad for a man your age. Not ideal, but not bad. You used to be an athlete, didn’t you?”

“A ballplayer,” he answered. “Never made the big leagues, but I put in close to twenty years in the minors. You could do that before the Lizards came. I’ve tried to stay in halfway decent shape since.”

“You’ve done all right,” Dr. Blanchard told him. “I wouldn’t recommend that you go out and run a marathon, but you seem to be okay for all ordinary use.”

“I’ll take that,” Sam said. “Thanks very much for the checkup—or for most of it, anyhow.”

“You’re welcome.” She started to laugh. Sam raised an eyebrow. She explained, “I started to tell you, ‘My pleasure,’ but that isn’t right. I don’t enjoy doing that, no matter how necessary it is.”