Striking the Balance (39 page)

“T-T-T-oma,” the Tosevite hatchling said triumphantly, and looked right at Ttomalss. Its mobile face twisted into an expression that indicated pleasure.

“Yes, I am Ttomalss,” the psychologist agreed. The hatchling had no control over its excretions, but it was learning to talk. The Big Uglies were a peculiar species indeed, as far as Ttomalss was concerned.

“T-T-T-oma,” the hatchling repeated, and added an emphatic cough for good measure. Ttomalss wondered whether it really was putting stress on his name or just reproducing another word-like sound it knew.

“Yes, I am Ttomalss,” he said again. If Big Uglies acquired language in a way at all similar to that which hatchlings of the Race used, hearing things over and over would help it learn. It was already showing itself to be a good deal more precocious than hatchlings of the Race as far as talking went: however it learned words, it learned them rapidly. But its coordination, or rather lack of same, set it apart from hatchlings still wet with the juices of their eggs.

He started to repeat his name once more, but the communicator squawked for attention. He went over to it and saw Ppevel staring out of the screen. “Superior sir,” he said as he turned on the video so Ppevel could see him in turn. “How may I serve you, superior sir?”

The assistant administrator for the eastern section of the main continental mass wasted no time with polite small talk. He said, “Prepare the hatchling that came from the body of the Tosevite called Liu Han for immediate return to the surface of Tosev 3.”

Ttomalss had known for some time that that blow might come. He still could not prevent a hiss of pain. “Superior sir, I must appeal,” he said. “The hatchling is at the point of beginning to acquire language. To abandon the project involving it would be to cast aside knowledge that can be obtained in no other way, violating principles of scientflic investigation the Race has traditionally employed regardless of circumstances.” He knew no stronger argument than that.

“Tradition and Tosev 3 increasingly prove immiscible,” Ppevel replied. “I repeat: prepare the hatchling for immediate return to Tosev 3.”

“Superior sir, it shall be done,” Ttomalss said miserably. Obedience was a principle the Race had traditionally followed, too. Even so, he went on, “I do protest your decision, and request”—he couldn’t demand, not when Ppevel outranked him—“that you tell me why you made it.”

“I will give you my reasons—or rather, my reason,” the assistant administrator answered. “It is very simple: the People’s Liberation Army is making life in China unbearable for the Race. Their most recent outrage, which took place just the other day, involved the detonation of several large-caliber artillery shells, and produced losses larger than we can afford to absorb. The males of the People’s Liberation Army—and the one angry female whose hatchling you now have—have pledged to diminish such activities in exchange for the return of this hatchling. The bargain strikes me as being worth making.”

“The female Liu Han is still high in the councils of this bandit grouping?” Ttomalss said glumly. He had been so certain his plan to disgrace the female would succeed. It had fit perfectly with what he thought he knew of Big Ugly psychology.

But Ppevel said, “Yes, she is, and still insistent on the return of the hatchling. It has become a political liability to us. Returning it to the Tosevite female Liu Han may transform that liability into a propaganda victory, and will have the effect of reducing military pressure on our forces in Peking. Therefore, for the third time, ready the hatchling for immediate return to Tosev 3.”

“It shall be done,” Ttomalss said sadly. Ppevel didn’t hear that: he’d already broken the connection, no doubt so he wouldn’t have to listen to any further objections from Ttomalss. That was rude. Ttomalss, unfortunately for him, was in no position to do anything about it except resent it.

He had to assume that when Ppevel said
immediate,
he meant it. He made sure the Tosevite hatchling had dry wrappings for its excretory orflices, and made sure those wrappings were snug around the hatchling’s legs and midsection. The trip down would be in free fall; the last thing he wanted was bodily waste floating around in the shuttlecraft. The pilot wouldn’t be delighted if that happened, either.

He wished he could do something about the hatchling’s mouth. Big Uglies in free fall had been known to suffer reverse peristalsis, as if they were expelling poisonous material they had swallowed. The Race did not suffer similar symptoms. Ttomalss packed several clean waste cloths, just in case he’d need them.

While he worked, the hatchling cheerfully babbled on. The sounds it made these days were as close to the ones the Race used as it could come with its somewhat different vocal apparatus. Ttomalss let out another hissing sigh. He would have to start over with a new hatchling, and it would be years before he could learn all he wanted about Tosevite language acquisition.

Tessrek stopped in the doorway. He didn’t undo the gate Ttomalss had rigged to keep the hatchling from wandering the corridor, but jeered over it. “You’ll finally be getting rid of that horrible thing, I hear. I won’t be sorry to see—and scent—the last of it, let me tell you.”

Ppevel wouldn’t have called Tessrek directly. He might well have called the male who supervised both Tessrek and Ttomalss, though, to make sure his orders were obeyed. That would have been all he needed to get rumors flying. Ttomalss said, “Go tend to your own research, and may it be treated as cavalierly as mine has.”

Tessrek let his mouth fall open in a derisive laugh. “My research, unlike yours, is productive, so I have no fear of its being curtailed.” He did leave then, and just as well, or Ttomalss might have thrown something at him.

Only a little later, a male in the red and silver body paint of a shuttlecraft pilot gave the gateway a dubious look with one eye turret. He speared Ttomalss with the other, saying, “Is the Big Ugly ready to travel, Researcher?” His tone warned,
It had better be.

“It is,” Ttomalss said grudgingly. He examined the other male’s body paint again and added, even more grudgingly, “Superior sir.”

“Good,” the shuttlecraft pilot said. “I am Heddosh, by the way.” He gave Ttomalss his name as if convinced the researcher should already have known it.

Ttomalss scooped up the Tosevite hatchling. That wasn’t as easy as it had been when the creature was newly emerged from the body of the female Liu Han: it was much bigger now, and weighed much more. Ttomalss had to put down the bag of supplies he had with him so he could open the gate, at which point the hatchling nearly wriggled out of his arms. Heddosh emitted a derisive snort. Ttomalss glared at him. He had no idea of the difficulties involved in keeping this hatchling of another species alive and healthy.

Being taken to the shuttlecraft fascinated the hatchling. Several times on the journey, it saw something new and said, “This?”—sometimes with the interrogative cough, sometimes without.

“It speaks!” Heddosh said in surprise.

“Yes, it does,” Ttomalss answered coldly. “It would learn to speak more if I were allowed to continue my experiment, too.” Now the hatchling would have to acquire the horrible sounds of Chinese rather than the Race’s elegant, precise, and (to Ttomalss) beautiful language.

The clanging noises the shuttlecraft airlock doors made frightened the hatchling, which clung tightly to Ttomalss. He soothed it as best he could, all the while trying to look on the bright side of things. The only bright side he found was that, until he could obtain another newly emerged Big Ugly hatchling, he would get enough sleep for a while.

More clangings signaled the shuttlecraft’s freeing itself from the starship to which it had been attached. With centrifugal force no longer giving a simulacrum of gravity, the shuttlecraft went into free fall. To Ttomalss’ relief, the hatchling showed no perceptible distress. It seemed to find the sensation interesting, perhaps even pleasant. Data showed that the female Liu Han had had the same reaction. Ttomalss wondered if it was hereditary.

There was a long-term research project, he thought. Maybe someone could start it after the conquest was safe and secure. He wondered if the day would ever come when the conquest was safe and secure. He’d never imagined the Race making concessions to the Tosevites in negotiations, as Ppevel was in yielding the hatchling to them. Once you started making concessions, where would you stop? That was a chilling thought, when you got down to it.

The shuttlecraft’s rocket engine began to roar. Acceleration shoved Ttomalss back into his couch, and the hatchling against him. It squalled in fright. He comforted it again, even though its weight pressing on him made him far from comfortable. The hatchling had calmed before acceleration ended, and squealed with delight when free fall returned.

Ttomalss wondered if the Big Ugly female Liu Han could have done as well with the hatchling, even if she’d kept it since it emerged from her body. He had his doubts.

When Otto Skorzeny came back to the panzer encampment, he was grinning from ear to ear. “Brush the canary feathers off your chin,” Heinrich Jäger told him.

The SS man actually did make brushing motions at his face. In spite of everything, Jäger laughed. Whatever else you could say about him, Skorzeny had style. The trouble was, there was so much else to say. “Off it went,” Skorzeny boomed. “The Jews ate the story up like gumdrops, poor damned fools. They brought up their own wagon to carry the present, and they promised they’d sneak it past the Lizards. I figure they can do that, probably better than I could. And once they do—”

Jäger tipped back his head and slid his index finger across his throat. Chuckling, Skorzeny nodded. “When is the timer set for?” Jäger asked.

“Day after tomorrow,” Skorzeny answered. “That’ll give ’em plenty of time to get the bomb back to Lodz. Poor stupid bastards.” He shook his head, perhaps even in genuine sympathy. “I wonder if anybody’s ever done such a good job of committing suicide before.”

“Masada,” Jäger said, dredging the name up from the long-vanished days before the First World War, when he’d wanted to be a Biblical archaeologist. He saw it meant nothing to Skorzeny, and explained: “The whole garrison killed one another off instead of surrendering to the Romans.”

“There’ll be more of ’em done in now,” the SS man said. “A lot more.”

“Ja,”
Jäger answered absently. He still couldn’t tell whether Skorzeny hated Jews on his own hook or because he’d got orders to hate them. In the end, what did it matter? He’d go after them with the same genial ferocity either way.

Had the message got through to Anielewicz? Jäger had been wondering about that ever since the meeting he, Skorzeny, and the Jewish fighting leader had had in the forest. Anielewicz hadn’t tipped his hand then. Had he got the message and then not believed it? Had he got it, believed it, and then been unable to convince his fellow Jews it was true?

No way to be sure, not from here. Jäger shook his head. He’d have a way to tell, soon enough. If the Jews in Lodz were snuffed out like so many candles day after tomorrow, he could figure somebody down there had decided he was lying.

Skorzeny had an animal alertness to him. “What’s up?” he asked, seeing Jäger’s head go back and forth.

“Nothing, really.” The panzer colonel hoped his voice sounded casual. “Thinking about the surprise they’ll have in Lodz—for a little while, anyhow.”

“For a little while is right,” Skorzeny said. “Stupid sheep. You’d think they’d know better than to trust a German, but no, they walked right into it.” He bleated sardonically. “And the lambs’ blood will go up on the doorposts of all the houses.” Jäger stared; he hadn’t imagined Skorzeny as a man who knew his Scripture. The SS
Standartenführer
chuckled again. “The
Führer
will have his revenge on the Jews, and who knows? We may even kill a few Lizards, too.”

“We’d better,” Jäger answered. “You go and rip the heart out of the human sector of Lodz and there’s nothing to keep the scaly sons of bitches from staging out of it any more. They could hit the bases of our penetrations north and south of the city and cut us right off. That’s too steep a price for the
Führer’s
revenge, you ask me.”

“Nobody asked you, and the
Führer
doesn’t think so,” Skorzeny said. “He told me as much himself—he wants those Jews dead.”

“How am I supposed to argue with that?” Jäger said. The answer was simple: he couldn’t. So he’d set himself up to circumvent a personal order from the
Führer,
had he? Well. If anyone ever found out what he’d done, he was a dead man anyhow. They couldn’t kill him any deader.
No, but they can take longer getting you dead,
he thought uneasily.

He threw himself flat on the ground almost before he consciously heard the shells whistling in from out of the east. Skorzeny sprawled there beside him, hands up to cover the back of his neck. Somewhere not far away, a wounded man was screaming. The bombardment went on for about fifteen minutes, then let up.

Jäger scrambled to his feet “We’ve got to move camp now,” he shouted. “They know where we are. We were lucky that time—far as I could tell, that was all ordinary ammunition coming, none of their special delights that spit mines all over the place so people and panzers don’t dare go anywhere. They’re short of those little beauties, by all the signs, but they will use ’em if they think they can make a profit. We won’t let ’em.”

He’d hardly finished speaking before the first panzer engines rumbled into life. He was proud of his men. Most of them were veterans who’d been through everything the Russians and the British and the Lizards could throw at them. They understood what needed doing and took care of it with a minimum of fuss and bother. Skorzeny was a genius raider, but he couldn’t run a regiment like this. Jäger had his own talents, and they were not to be sneezed at.

While the regiment was shifting its base, he didn’t have to think about the horror waiting to happen in Lodz, growing closer with every tick of a timer. Skorzeny was right: the Jews were fools to trust any German. Now the question was, which German had they been fools enough to trust?