Harry Turtledove - Down to Earth

“One of the reasons I am giving it to you is that I trust you not to do that more than I trust any of my Big Ugly friends,” Yeager answered. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” Straha said firmly. He cast down his eyes again. “By the spirits of Emperors past, I swear that, too.” He paused and slyly waggled an eye turret a little. “How much trouble would I cause if I did?”

Yeager laughed. He relied on Straha not to mean that. But his own voice was serious as he replied, “More than you can imagine, Shiplord. Even if you multiply that imagination by ten, more than you can imagine.” He laughed again. “And that probably tempts you to open it more than anything else I have said.”

“As a matter of fact, it does,” Straha answered. What did Yeager have in the envelope he now held in his own scaly hand? Whatever it was, by the way he spoke it was even more important than his raising hatchlings of the Race as if they were Big Uglies. Straha wondered if it was some purely Tosevite affair or one also involving the Race He could find out. He could…

“As I said, I trust you,” Yeager told him.

“You may.” Straha meant it. “I shall hide this envelope and keep it safe and not open it, as you require.” He laughed. “But I shall go right on wondering what it holds.”

Sam Yeager nodded. “Fair enough.”

When the telephone rang, Vyacheslav Molotov feared it would be Marshal Zhukov. Ever since the Germans and the Lizards started fighting, Zhukov had called more often than Molotov really wanted to listen to him. The Soviet Union’s leading soldier assumed that war close to the border brought him to the fore, and Molotov was in no position to contradict him.

But Molotov’s secretary spoke in some excitement: “Comrade General Secretary, I have Paul Schmidt on the line.”

“The German ambassador, Pyotr Maksimovich?” Molotov said. “Put him through, by all means.” He waited, then spoke to Schmidt: “And what can I do for you today, your Excellency?”

“May I please see you as soon as I can reach the Kremlin?” Schmidt asked. “I would sooner not conduct my business over uncertainly secure wires.”

“By all means, come. I will see you,” Molotov replied. He wondered whether his wires were insecure, whether Zhukov was listening. Probably, he judged, but he called the marshal anyway as soon as he got off the phone with the German. Without preamble, he said, “Schmidt is on the way here.”

“Did he say what for?”

“No. He said he would tell me when he got here.”

“All right. Keep me apprised.” Zhukov hung up.

Molotov had cakes and rolls stuffed with spiced meat set out beside the samovar in the corner of the office where he went to wait for Schmidt. He had never had any use for the man’s Nazi bosses, but liked him as well as he liked anyone.

After the handshakes and polite greetings that followed the German ambassador’s arrival, Schmidt took tea and did eat one of the rolls. Molotov waited patiently. Schmidt blotted his lips on a linen napkin, then, grimacing, said, “Comrade General Secretary, I would like you to use your good offices to help the Greater German Reich end its hostilities with the Race.”

“Ah.” Molotov had thought it might be so. He wasn’t sure whether or not he’d hoped it might be so. He wouldn’t have been altogether sorry to see the Germans and the Lizards pound on each other a while longer. Maybe the Nazis couldn’t pound any more. Delicately, Molotov said, “You understand, this may involve negotiating a surrender.”

Schmidt nodded. “Yes, I do understand that. General Dornberger, who has assumed the Fuhrer ’s office, understands it as well.”

“I see.” From the briefings Molotov had had from the GRU, Dornberger was indeed a capable, sensible man. But the briefings didn’t explain everything. “How did General Dornberger survive the Race’s attack on Peenemunde?”

“We knew the Race would attack there, and fortified our shelters to stand up to the worst we thought they could do,” Schmidt replied. “There, our engineering proved adequate.” He bowed his head. Molotov wondered if he should have offered vodka along with the tea. Gathering himself, Schmidt went on, “But we did not realize the Lizards would strike so many hard and violent blows against the Reich .”

Molotov couldn’t imagine why the Nazi leaders hadn’t realized that. The Race had told them what would happen-told them in great detail. They’d chosen not to listen, and paid an enormous price for not listening. Now they had to settle accounts. Molotov didn’t bring that up. All he said was, “If you would care to wait, I will withdraw and call Queek. I have another office where the two of you can confer, and I will be glad to assist in any way I can.”

“Thank you,” Schmidt said. “I would be grateful for your assistance.”

As Molotov had expected, he had no trouble reaching Queek, or rather the Lizard’s interpreter. After the interpreter spoke to his principal, he returned to Russian to tell Molotov, “We shall be there directly. This war has done too much damage to both sides for it to continue.”

“I look forward to seeing the ambassador,” Molotov replied. He went back to the office where Schmidt waited. “Queek and his interpreter are on their way. Come with me; I will take you to a room where you and he can discuss the matter.”

“Why not this one?” the German ambassador asked.

“Security,” Molotov answered, one word for which no counter-argument existed in the Soviet Union.

Servants-not that the dictator of the proletariat thought of them as such-hastily brought refreshments to the office where Molotov met with Queek The ambassador from the Race and his interpreter arrived within fifteen minutes. After hypocritical expressions of personal esteem aimed at Paul Schmidt, Queek came to the point: “Is the Reich prepared to surrender without conditions?”

“Without conditions? No,” Schmidt answered. “We still have resources we can use to hurt you, and we are prepared to go on doing that at need.”

Queek rose from the chair that was suited to his posterior. “In that case, we have nothing to say to each other. Call me again when you come to your senses.”

“Wait,” Molotov said quickly. “You are here now. Why not listen to the conditions Schmidt proposes for surrender? They may be acceptable to you, or you may be able to negotiate with him until they become acceptable.”

Molotov had seen how hard the concept of negotiating with humans was for the Race to grasp. The interpreter and Queek had to go back and forth several times before the Lizard grudgingly made the hand gesture his kind used for a nod. “Let it be as you request,” he said. “I recognize that your government has broken no significant promises during this period of crisis.” It was faint praise, but Molotov took it Queek swung his eye turrets toward Schmidt and asked, “What conditions do you propose, then?”

“First, the Reich is to retain its political independence,” Schmidt said.

“Why should we grant you that?” the Lizard demanded.

“You have devastated our land, but you do not occupy it,” Schmidt replied. “In fighting on the ground, we have given at least as good as we’ve got.”

“So what?” Queek said. “We have found other ways to win the war, found them and used them. If you do not think we have won, why did you ask for this meeting?”

“It is hard to imagine you could do more to wreck the Reich than you have already done,” Schmidt said, fighting to salvage what he could with a skill Molotov had to admire. “But we still have land-based missiles unfired, and you have done next to nothing to our missile-carrying submarines. If you give us nothing, what have we got to lose by using all the explosive-metal bombs we have left against you?”