Harry Turtledove - Down to Earth

“Yes, I would say that is probably a truth,” Bunim agreed. “We would have an easier time on this planet were it a falsehood.” He let out a long, heartfelt sigh.

“No doubt,” Nesseref said. “Many Big Uglies are able, as I say. But few are, or can make themselves be, congenial to us. Anielewicz is one of those who can. I count him a friend of sorts, even if he is not of our species-certainly more of a friend than an accursed male who sought to give me ginger to induce me to mate with him.”

“I sometimes think ginger is the revenge Tosev 3 is taking on the Race for our efforts to bring this world into the Empire,” Bunim said wearily. “In some ways, the herb causes us more trouble than the Big Uglies do.”

“Truth,” Nesseref said, with an emphatic cough. She’d tried ginger once herself, before the Race fully understood what it did to females. She’d gone straight into her season, of course, and mated with a couple of Bunim’s sentries. Only luck that she hadn’t laid a clutch of eggs afterwards. And only luck-luck and a strong, strong will-that the one taste hadn’t led to addiction, as it had for so many males and females.

Bunim went on, “I also note that, however congenial you may find Anielewicz, by no means do all of his fellow Tosevites share your opinion. He was recently the target of an assassination attempt by one of the Big Ugly groupings with no great use for Jews. I am not certain which, but there is no shortage of such groups. You have shown you understand as much.”

“Yes.” Nesseref did her best to hold in surprise and dismay. Murder, especially political murder, was rare among the Race. She supposed she shouldn’t have been shocked to learn it was otherwise here on Tosev 3, but she was. “An attempt, you say, superior sir? Was he injured?”

“No. Apparently fearing someone might be seeking to attack him, he dropped to the floor an instant before the assailant fired through the door of his flat. Whoever that assailant was, he escaped.”

“I am relieved to hear Anielewicz was not harmed,” Nesseref said.

“So was I,” the regional subadministrator answered. “You cannot imagine the chaos into which a successful assassination would have thrown this area. I very likely cannot imagine it, either, and I am glad I do not have to.”

He cared only about the politics involved, not about Anielewicz as an individual. Nesseref supposed she understood that. Bunim would have to go on dealing with whoever Anielewicz’s successor proved to be had the Jew been killed. Still, the attitude saddened her. She returned to her own immediate business: “I do thank you for expediting inspections of the liquid-hydrogen storage system at the shuttlecraft port. An accident would be unfortunate.”

“Truth.” Bunim looked at her sidelong. “You have a gift for understatement, Shuttlecraft Pilot.”

“I thank you,” Nesseref answered. “I would be less concerned had the Race done all the construction. But, even with the Tosevites working to our specifications, I want every possible assurance that they did the job properly.”

“I understand. I shall see to it.” Bunim turned one eye turret toward a chronometer. “And now, if you will excuse me, I also have other things to see to…”

“Of course, superior sir.” Nesseref left Bunim’s office, and also left the building housing it. Having been in the hands of the Race since shortly after the arrival of the conquest fleet, it suited her kind about as well as a building originally put up by Big Uglies could. When she went outside, into the cold of the Bialut Market Square, she found herself back in a different world.

Even Tosevites had to wear layer upon layer of wrappings to protect themselves from their own planet’s weather. That didn’t deter them from gathering in large numbers to buy and sell. Foods of all sorts were on display (no, almost all sorts, for this was a market full of Jews, and so held no pork, which was to Nesseref’s way of thinking most regrettable). So were more of the Big Uglies’ wrappings. So were pots and pans and plates and the curious implements the Tosevites used to feed themselves.

And so were a good many items obviously manufactured by the Race. Nesseref wondered how they’d got there. She wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to learn it was through no legitimate means. The window in Bunim’s office overlooked the market square. She wondered if the regional subadministrator or his subordinates paid any attention to the commerce the Big Uglies were conducting right under their snouts. Then she wondered if the Tosevites quietly paid some of those subordinates-with ginger, say-to turn their eye turrets in a different direction. She wouldn’t have been surprised about that, either.

Big Uglies were more voluble than males and females of the Race. They shouted and whined and gesticulated and generally acted as if the world would come to an end if bargains didn’t come out exactly the way they wanted them. Their frantic eagerness would have impressed and probably influenced Nesseref. The Tosevites against whom they were dickering, though, were used to such ploys, and took no notice of them-or else they too were shouting and whining and gesticulating.

Someone-a Big Ugly, by the timbre and mushy accent-called her name. She swung an eye turret in the direction from which the sound had struck her hearing diaphragm, and saw a Tosevite approaching, waving as he-she? no, he, by the wrappings and the voice-drew near. A little more slowly than she should have, she recognized him. “I greet you, Mordechai Anielewicz,” she said, annoyed he’d seen and known her first.

“I greet you, Shuttlecraft Pilot,” the Big Ugly said, extending his right hand in the greeting gesture common among his kind. Nesseref took it. His fingers, though large, felt soft and fleshy against hers. They also felt cool; her body temperature was a couple of hundredths higher than his. Speaking the language of the Race pretty well for one of his kind, he went on, “I hope you are well?”

“Well enough, I thank you, though I do not much care for the cold and damp. I am glad spring is coming,” Nesseref replied. She wagged the eye turret with which she was looking at him, as she might have done to commiserate with one of her own kind. “I have heard from the regional subadministrator that you are having a difficult time of it.”

“Why, no, the pains are no worse than-” Anielewicz caught himself. “Oh. You must mean the male with the gun. He missed me. He has not returned since. I do not worry about him… too much.” His hand dropped to the butt of the pistol he wore on his hip.

“Who would wish to kill you?” Nesseref asked.

The Big Ugly’s mouth twisted in the gesture Nesseref had come to associate with amusement, though she didn’t understand why the circumstances should amuse him. “Who?” he said. “The Deutsche, the Poles, the Russkis, perhaps, and perhaps also the regional subadministrator.”

“Bunim?” Nesseref made the negative hand gesture. “Impossible! The Race does not do such things. Besides, he would have mentioned it to me. He spoke of its happening through some agency other than his own.”

“He would not admit to it,” Anielewicz said. “Even if he arranged to have it done, he would not admit it, not to anyone who did not have to know of it.”

“Why not?” Again, Nesseref was puzzled.

Again, the Tosevite smiled. Again, the shuttlecraft pilot could not see any reason to show amusement. As if speaking to a hatchling barely old enough to understand words, Mordechai Anielewicz replied, “Because if he arranged to have it done, and if I found out he had arranged it, I would probably try to kill him in retaliation, and he knows it.”

He spoke, as far as Nesseref could judge, quite calmly. She reckoned him her friend, as far as she could across the lines of species. But he’d just shown her how alien he was. Her shiver had nothing to do with the chilly weather.