And then the ex-shiplord’s mouth fell open in a startled laugh. When he’d offered the reporter that opinion, he’d thought of it as nothing but a joke, a way to get under the Tosevite’s scales-no, under his skin was the English idiom, because Big Uglies had no scales. But he’d told the fellow the truth after all.
So what? he thought. Even if it was the truth, it had no business appearing in a newspaper. Maybe I am not so enamored of freedom as I thought. But he made the negative gesture once more. Compared to the Americans, he was a reactionary. Compared to his own kind, he was a radical, and a worse radical than he’d been before fleeing to the USA.
And there were plenty of males-and, by now, very likely some females, too-who were a good deal more radical than he. The expatriate community in the United States was flourishing. Some males were even prepared to look kindly on snoutcounting, and to propose institutionalizing it for the Race as well. That still struck Straha as laughable.
That members of the Race could hold such ideas, though, was bemusing. Everyone talked about the ways in which the Race was influencing Tosev 3 and the Tosevites. And with good reason: the Race’s influence on the planet and its folk was profound. And the Race’s influence on the Tosevites had been envisioned since the first probe sent to this world found it habitable.
No one-at least, no one among the Race-seemed much interested in talking about ways in which Tosev 3 and the Tosevites were exerting influence in the other direction. Nobody had expected the Big Uglies to own any ideas worth investigating. The probe sent to this world hadn’t shown everything worth showing-or rather, Tosev 3 and the Tosevites had changed far faster than anyone back on Home had imagined possible. The leading civilizations here were formidable intellectually as well as technologically.
And Tosev 3 itself was influencing the Race. A good-sized jar of ginger sat on the floor by Straha’s sleeping mat. He went over and had a taste. How many males, how many females, indulged themselves so whenever they found the chance? He could freely do so-a small mercy from Atvar, who did not seem inclined to grant any large ones.
For the Race as a whole, though, and especially for females, ginger nemained illegal, with harsh penalties levied against those caught using it. But males and females kept right on tasting. Mating season as a brief, separate time was a thing of the past. The colonists were still new to Tosev 3. They hadn’t fully adjusted to the change yet; a lot of them kept trying to pretend it hadn’t happened. But how would things look in a couple of generations?
Straha had heard the scandalous story of the two perverts who’d become as sexually addicted to each other as they were physically addicted to the herb. All things considered, Straha supposed Atvar had been wise to exile them to the USA, where the Big Uglies reckoned such infatuations normal.
“But Atvar has all the imagination of a mud puddle,” Straha said. He was sure his chamber was monitored, but didn’t care; his opinion of the fleetlond was about as far removed from secret as it could be. Atvar no doubt believed the two perverts an aberration. Maybe they were. Straha wouldn’t have bet on it. To him, they seemed far more likely to be the shape of things to come.
The telephone hissed. “Former shiplord and current nuisance Straha speaking,” Straha said. “I greet you.”
“And I greet you.” Atvan’s image appeared in the monitor. “You have named yourself well.”
“For which I more or less thank you.” With ginger making every nerve twang, Straha didn’t much care what he said.
“Pshing tells me you tried to call,” Atvan said. “I was occupied. I am no longer. What do you want? If it is anything reasonable, I will try to get it for you.”
“That is more than you have said for some time,” Straha replied. “What I chiefly want to know is whether you have finally extracted all the yolk from my egg. If you have, I would like to live somewhere other than Shepheard’s Hotel.”
“Your debriefing appears to be complete, yes,” Atvar answered. “But what will you do if you are turned loose on the members of the Race here on Tosev 3? How will you support yourself? The position of shiplord came with pay. The position of nuisance, while otherwise eminent, does not.”
In genuine curiosity, Straha asked, “Where did you learn such sarcasm? You did not speak so when I was a shiplord.”
“Dealing with Fleetlord Reffet may have something to do with it,” Atvar told him. “Dealing with Big Uglies may have something to do with it, too. In different ways, they drive a sensible male mad.”
That assumed he was sensible. Straha made no such assumption. But he kept quiet about the assumptions he did make. Atvar held his fate in his fingerclaws. All he said was, “You are not quite the male you were.”
“No one who comes to Tosev 3 escapes unchanged,” Atvar said. “But you have not answered my question. Have you any plans for making a living if you are allowed entry into the greater society of the Race?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Straha said. “I was thinking of drafting my memoirs and living off the proceeds of publication. I am, I gather, notorious. I ought to be able to exploit that for the sake of profit.”
“No one who comes to Tosev 3 escapes unchanged,” Atvar repeated. “When you were a shiplord, you would never have debased yourself so.”
“Perhaps not,” Straha said. “But then again, who knows? I have had unique experiences. Why should others not be interested in learning of them?”
“Because they were illegal?” Atvar suggested. “Because they were shameful? Because your descriptions of them may be libelous?”
“All those things should attract interest to my story,” Straha said cheerfully. “No one would care to read the memoirs of a clerk who did nothing but sit in front of a monitor his whole life long.”
“No one will read your memoirs if they are libelous,” Atvar said. “You are not in the United States any more, you know.”
“Exalted Fleetlord, I do not need to be libelous to be interesting,” Straha said.
“I will be the judge of that, when my aides and I see the manuscript you produce,” Atvar said.
Had Straha been a Big Ugly, he would have smiled. “You and your aides will not be the only ones judging it. I am sure Fleetlord Reffet and many of the colonists would be fascinated to learn all the details of what happened before they got here. And, as I say, I doubt I would need to distort the truth in any way to keep them entertained and their tongues wagging.”
He waited to see how Atvar would take that. He despised Reffet almost as much as Atvar did, but if he could use the fleetlord of the colonization fleet as a lever against the fleetlord of the conquest fleet, he would not only do it, he would enjoy doing it. And, sure enough, Atvar said, “You mean you will go out of your way to embarrass me and hope Reffet will like the result enough to let you go ahead and publish it.”
“That is not at all what I said, Exalted Fleetlord,” Straha protested, although it was exactly what he’d meant.
“Suppose I let you get away with that,” Atvar said. “Suppose I pretend not to notice whatever you may have to say about me. Will you include in your memoirs passages indicating the need for a long-term Soldiers’ Time here on Tosev 3, to help stop the endless grumbling from the colonists? The Race, after all, is more important than either one of us.”
Straha hadn’t expected that, either. Yes, Atvar had changed over the years. To some degree, that made him harder to dislike, but only to some degree. Straha made the affirmative gesture. “I think we have a bargain.”
“Imagine my delight.” Atvar broke the connection. No, he wasn’t so hard to dislike after all.