“It shall be done,” Straha said.
When he got to the Security office, he found the males and females there almost jumping out of their hides. Their tailstumps quivered with excitement. Most of them hadn’t been anywhere near Tosev 3 when he staged his spectacular defection, but they all knew of it. “This will not take long,” the senior Security officer said, advancing on him with a couple of trays full of waxy greenish plastic. “I have to take the impressions and then scan the patterns into the computer.”
“I am familiar with the procedure, I assure you,” Straha replied. He let the officer press the plastic to his snout and left palm, then waited for him to finish the scanning and comparison. By the way the officer stiffened when the data came up on the monitor, Straha knew he’d proved he was himself. He said, “You will now please be so kind as to take me to the consul here. I believe his name is Tsaitsanx-is that not correct?”
Absently, the Security officer made the affirmative gesture. “It shall be done.” He sounded dazed. “Although perhaps I should formally place you under arrest first.”
“No. Not while I have this.” Straha waved the attache case. “If Tsaitsanx is not fluent in written English, it would be wise to have a male or female-I suppose a male from the conquest fleet-who is fluent with us.”
“The consul does read the local language, yes,” the Security male said. He ordered a couple of his subordinates to escort Straha to Tsaitsanx’s office, as if afraid the former shiplord would do something nefarious if allowed to walk the corridors unattended.
Tsaitsanx proved to have come with the conquest fleet, though Straha had not known him. The consul said, “I always knew you lived in my area: indeed, I have spoken with males and females who met you at functions given by, ah, more legitimate expatriates. But I never expected to make your acquaintance here, and I do not know whether to greet you or not.”
“You had better greet me.” Straha opened the attache case and pulled out the papers Sam Yeager had given him. “Examine these, if you would be so kind. I assure you, they are genuine. I would not be here if they were not. They were given to me by one of those rare creatures, a Tosevite with a conscience.”
“Examine them I shall,” Tsaitsanx replied. “What have we here…” He read with great attention for a little while. Then, as if of their own accord, his eye turrets lifted from the papers in front of him and focused intently on Straha. “By the Emperor, Shiplord, do you know what these papers mean?”
“I know exactly what they mean, Consul. Exactly,” Straha said. “I would not be here if I did not.”
“I believe that.” Tsaitsanx returned to his reading, but not for long. “Have I your permission to scan these documents and transmit them to Cairo?”
“You have.” Straha was sure the consul would have done so without his permission had he withheld it, but he did appreciate being asked.
After sending the papers on their electronic way, Tsaitsanx said, “That brings me to the next question: what to do about you, Shiplord. I cannot scan you and transmit you to Cairo.”
“It would be convenient if you could,” Straha said. “Before long, the Big Uglies will realize I have gone missing. They may not know why. On the other fork of the tongue, they may. And this is bound to be one of the first places they search.”
8
By now, Nesseref had flown into Los Angeles several times. It was, in her view, one of the better Tosevite facilities for receiving shuttlecraft. For that matter, she would rather have landed there than at Cairo. No one had ever shot at her when she descended toward the Los Angeles airport that also did duty as a shuttlecraft port.
“Shuttlecraft, your descent is nominal in all respects,” a Big Ugly at the local control center radioed to her. “Continue on trajectory and land in the usual area.”
“It shall be done,” Nesseref answered. “I hope the ambulance is waiting to bring the sick male directly to the shuttlecraft.” Had she been dealing with her own kind, she would have assumed that to be the case. With Big Uglies, you never could tell.
But the Tosevite on the other end of the radio link said, “Shuttlecraft Pilot, that ambulance is waiting at the terminal here. So are the hydrogen and oxygen for your next burn. As soon as you are refueled, you are cleared for launch, so you can get that male to proper medical facilities for your kind. I hope he makes a full recovery.”
“I thank you,” Nesseref said, “both for your kind wishes and for the well-organized preparations you have made to assist one of my species.”
Braking rockets fired. Deceleration pressed Nesseref into her seat. She eyed the radar and her velocity. The Race’s engineering was good, very good. Most shuttlecraft pilots-almost all, in fact-went through their whole careers without ever coming close to using a manual override. But the pilot who wasn’t alert to the possibility was the one who might come to grief.
Not this time. Electronics and rocket motor functioned with their usual perfection. Landing legs deployed. The shuttlecraft gently touched down on the concrete of the Los Angeles airport. Three vehicles immediately rolled toward it: the hydrogen and oxygen trucks, and another one with flashing lights and with red crosses painted on it in several places. Nesseref had seen vehicles with such symbols in Poland, and recognized this one as a Tosevite ambulance.
“Will the male require aid to board the shuttlecraft?” she asked, releasing the landing ladder so that its extensible segment reached the concrete.
“I am given to understand that he will not,” replied the Tosevite in the control tower. “He is said to be weak but capable of moving on his own.”
“Very well,” Nesseref said. “I await him.” She didn’t have to wait long. Her external camera showed the male leaving the ambulance by the rear doors and moving toward the landing ladder at a startlingly brisk clip. Noting his body paint, she let out a small hiss of surprise as he scrambled up toward the cabin-nobody had bothered to tell her he was a shuttlecraft pilot, too.
“I greet you,” he said as he slid down into the compartment with her. He got into his seat and fastened the safety harness with a practiced ease that showed he was indeed familiar with shuttlecraft.
“And I greet you, comrade,” Nesseref answered. “Are you in pain? I have analgesics in the first-aid kit, and will be happy to give you whatever you may need.”
“I thank you, but I am not suffering in the least, except from anxiety,” the male said. “When this shuttlecraft lifts off, I shall be the happiest male on-or rather, above-the surface of Tosev 3.”
He certainly didn’t seem infirm. Nesseref wondered why she’d been summoned halfway around the planet to take him to Cairo. For that matter, she wondered why she wasn’t taking him to the nearby city of Jerusalem, which boasted more specialized medical facilities. What sort of pull did he have? She was astonished to discover a shuttlecraft pilot with any pull at all.
She said, “We cannot go anywhere till the Big Uglies give us hydrogen and oxygen.”
“I understand that,” he said, a touch of asperity in his voice.
Who do you think you are? Nesseref thought in some annoyance. Before she could call him on it, the Tosevite in the tower radioed, “Please open the port to your hydrogen tank. I say again, to your hydrogen tank.”
“It shall be done,” Nesseref said. “I am opening the port to my hydrogen tank. I repeat, to my hydrogen tank.” The Tosevites had sensibly adopted the Race’s refueling procedures, which minimized the possibility of error. Nesseref’s fingerclaws entered the proper control slot. The hydrogen tank rolled forward and delivered its liquefied contents. As soon as Nesseref said, “I am full,” the hose uncoupled and the truck withdrew.
“Now open the port to your oxygen tank. I say again, to your oxygen tank,” the Big Ugly in the control tower told her.