Authors: Harry Turtledove
“Vocative case,” the other pilot said in something like wonder. “I haven’t heard a vocative case, a real, living, breathing vocative case, since I escaped my last Latin class lo these many years ago.” Johnson had never heard of the vocative case, but he was damned if he would admit it. Flynn went on, “Well, it could depend on a lot of different things.”
“Really? I never would have guessed.”
“Hush.” Flynn brushed aside his sarcasm like an adult brushing off a five-year-old. He started ticking points off on his fingers: “First off, it depends on how soon the Race does figure out what’s going on.”
“Okay. That makes sense.” Johnson nodded. “If they work that out day after tomorrow, they have a better chance of doing something about it than if they work it out year after next.”
“Exactly.” Flynn beamed. “You can see after all.”
Now Johnson ignored him, persisting in his own train of thought: “And things will be different depending on whether they find out on their own or if we have to rub their snouts in it.”
“This is also true,” Flynn agreed. “If the latter, they will probably be trying to rub our noses in things at the same time. That creates the need for a lot of face-washing, or else a mudbath—I mean, a bloodbath. See, for example, the late, not particularly lamented Greater German
Reich.”
Johnson shivered, though the temperature in the
Lewis and Clark
never changed. He felt as if a goose had walked over his grave. “What happened to the
Hermann Göring
could have happened to us this past summer, too. The Lizards made damn sure the Nazis weren’t going to get themselves a toehold in the asteroid belt.”
“It didn’t happen to us because it happened to Indianapolis,” Mickey Flynn said. “Thanksgiving is coming before long. Do we give thanks for that, or not?”
“Damned if I know,” Johnson said. “But I’ll tell you something I heard. Don’t know whether it’s true, but I’ll pass it along anyhow.”
“Speak,” Flynn urged. “Give forth.”
“I’ve heard,” Glen Johnson said in low, conspiratorial tones, “I’ve heard that the
Christopher Columbus
has some turkeys in the deep freeze, to cook up for a proper Thanksgiving. Turkey.” His gaze went reverently heavenward—which gave him nothing but a glimpse of the light fixtures and aluminum paneling on the ceiling of the
Lewis and Clark’s
control room. “Do you remember what it tastes like? I
think
I do.”
“I think I do, too, but I wouldn’t mind testing my hypothesis experimentally.” Flynn raised an eyebrow at Johnson. “If you’d known you’d spend the rest of your days eating beans and beets and barley, you wouldn’t have been so eager to stow away, would you?”
“I didn’t intend to stow away, God damn it,” Johnson said, for about the five hundredth time. “All I wanted to do was get my upper stage repaired and go home, and our beloved commandant hijacked me.” He stuck to his story like glue.
“Anyone would think he’d had some reason to be concerned about security,” Flynn said. “A preposterous notion, on the face of it.”
“I wasn’t going to tell anybody, for Christ’s sake.” That was also part of Johnson’s story, and might even have been true.
“Brigadier General Healey, in his infinite wisdom, thought otherwise,” Flynn replied. “Who am I, a mere mortal, to imagine that the commandant could ever be mistaken?”
“Who are you, one Irishman, to give another one a hard time?” Johnson shot back.
“Shows what you know,” Flynn said. “Quarreling among ourselves is the Irish national sport. Of course, we have been known to put it by—every now and again, mind—when a Sassenach comes along.” He fixed Johnson with a mild and speculative gaze, then sighed. “And we’ve also been known
not
to put it by when a Sassenach comes along. If it weren’t for that, I suspect the history of Ireland would have been a good deal happier. A good deal more Irish, too, and less English.”
Johnson didn’t know much about the history of Ireland or, for that matter, the history of England. He knew the history of the United States from the patriotic lessons drilled into him in high school and from reading in military history since. He said, “The Irish aren’t the only ones to quarrel among themselves. My great-grandfathers wore blue. You listen to some of the folks here from Texas or the Carolinas and you’ll think the Civil War ended week before last.”
“My great-grandfathers wore blue, too,” Flynn said. “The Army was the only place that would give them anything close to a fair shake in those days. But over the past hundred years, America’s been a dull place. Every time we’ve fought, it’s been against somebody else.”
Before Johnson could answer that, the intercom started blaring his name:
“Lieutenant Colonel Johnson! Lieutenant Colonel Glen Johnson! Report to the commandant’s office immediately!”
“There, you see?” he said, unstrapping himself. “Healey’s been spying on us again.” He thought he was joking, but he wasn’t quite sure.
After swinging his way through the corridors of the
Lewis and Clark
and gliding past Brigadier General Healey’s adjutant, he caught himself on the chair across from the commandant’s desk, saluted, and said, “Reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Yes.” Healey’s bulldog countenance seldom looked as if it approved of anything. So far as Johnson could remember, the commandant had never looked as if he approved of him. Healey went on, “Have you ever heard of an officer named Sam Yeager?”
“Yes, sir,” Johnson answered. “He’s the fellow who pretty much wrote the book on the Lizards, isn’t he?”
“That’s the man.” Brigadier General Healey nodded. He leaned forward and glowered at Johnson. “Did you ever meet him?”
“No, sir,” Johnson answered. “What’s this about, if you don’t mind my asking?”
His own bump of curiosity itched. He’d never met Yeager, no, but he’d spoken with him on the phone. Yeager was another loose cannon, a man with a yen to know. Johnson had sometimes wondered if the Lizard expert had tried finding out who’d attacked the ships of the colonization fleet. He said zero, zip, zilch about that to Healey.
“That man is a troublemaker,” the commandant said. “You’re a troublemaker, too. Birds of a feather, if you know what I mean.”
“Sir, that’s not birds of a feather,” Johnson said. “That’s a wild-goose chase.”
“Is it?” Healey said. “I wonder. What would you have done, Lieutenant Colonel, if you’d found out that we were the ones who’d attacked the Lizards’ colonization fleet?”
“I can’t tell you, sir, because I really don’t know,” Johnson replied.
“That’s the wrong answer,” Brigadier General Healey growled, spearing him with the perpetually angry gaze. “The right answer is, ‘Sir, I wouldn’t have said a goddamn thing, not till hell froze over.’ ”
“What if I’d found out the Russians or the Germans did it, sir?” Johnson asked. “Wouldn’t I sing out then?”
“That’s different,” the commandant said. Before Johnson could ask how it was different, Healey spelled it out: “That’s them. This is us. Whoever spilled the beans to the Race has got Indianapolis’ blood on his hands, and President Warren’s blood, too. If I knew who it was . . .” He’d been out in weightlessness a long time. He could probably never go back to gravity again. If he could, he would without a doubt be permanently weakened. Somehow, none of that seemed to matter much. If he caught the bean-spiller, he
would
do horrible things to him.
“Sir . . .” Johnson said slowly, “are you telling me you think this Yeager was the one who told the Lizards we’d done it?” That fit in with his own speculations unpleasantly well. And Healey had access to a lot more secret information than he did.
“I don’t know, “the commandant answered, his voice a furious, frustrated rumble. “I just don’t know, goddammit. Nobody knows—or if anybody does, he’s not talking. But plenty of people want to find out—you can bet your bottom dollar on that. Yeager’s a loose cannon. I know that for a fact. He was trying to find out about this place, for instance. I know that for a fact, too.”
“Was he?” Johnson knew damn well Yeager was, or had been. He wondered if Lieutenant General Curtis LeMay had raked Yeager over the coals, too. He could hardly ask.
But he thought he got his answer anyhow, for Brigadier General Healey went on, “Whoever ran off at the mouth, he didn’t just cost the president’s neck, either. A lot of good officers are sitting on the sidelines now. They might have known this or that, and they kept quiet, the way they were supposed to. And what kind of thanks did they get for it? I’ll tell you what,” Healey said savagely. “They got the bum’s rush, that’s what. It isn’t right.”
“Yes, sir,” Johnson said, and then, greatly daring, “Sir, did you know anything about what was going on?”
Brigadier General Healey’s face was a closed door. “You are dismissed, Lieutenant Colonel,” he said, and bent to the papers secured to his desk by rubber bands.
After saluting, Johnson pushed off from the chair and glided out of the commandant’s office. He was thinking hard. Healey had done his best to put him together with Sam Yeager and to get him to say he thought Yeager was the one who’d let the Lizards know the USA had attacked their starships.
Johnson shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I’ll say that,” he muttered. He wouldn’t have said it even if he thought it true, not without certain proof he wouldn’t. He knew one thing, though: he wouldn’t have wanted to be in Sam Yeager’s shoes, not for all the tea in China.
Sam Yeager brushed his wife’s lips with his own and headed for the door. “See you tonight, hon,” he said. “Don’t know why they want me downtown today, but they do. Have fun with Mickey and Donald.”
Barbara rolled her eyes. “I expect I will. They don’t pay so much attention to me as they do to you.”
“I’m bigger,” Sam said. “That probably counts for something. I’ve got a deeper voice, too. That would count for something with people. I’m not sure how much it matters to the Lizards. Maybe we ought to try to find out.”
“Don’t you think we ought to treat them as kids first and guinea pigs second?” Barbara asked.
“Part of me does,” Yeager admitted. “The other part’s the one that’s seen Kassquit. It doesn’t matter whether we say we’re treating them as kids or as guinea pigs. They’ll end up guinea pigs. They can’t help it. We don’t know enough to raise them the way the Race would.”
“I’m not sure the Lizards really raise them at all when they’re this young,” his wife said. “They just try to keep them from eating one another.”
“You may be right,” Sam said. “Whether you are or not, though, I’ve still got to go downtown.”
“I know,” his wife answered. “Be careful.”
“I will. I always am.” Sam patted the .45 on his hip. “It’s part of my uniform, and I wear it. There aren’t all that many people who know about what went on and are dangerous—at least, I hope there aren’t. But I’m not taking any chances any which way.” Before Barbara could answer, he closed the door and went out to the car.
Driving into the middle of Los Angeles during the morning rush hour reminded him of why he didn’t like to do it very often. Fighting his way to a parking space once he got off the freeway hammered the lesson home. And crowding into an elevator to go up to the offices where he worked when he couldn’t stay at home added a final unwelcome exclamation point.
Just being here was enough to give him the willies. This was where Lieutenant General LeMay had chewed him out for getting too curious about the space station that became the
Lewis and Clark.
Had LeMay known what all else he was curious about, the lieutenant general would have chewed him out a lot harder.
Sam grimaced and walked a little straighter. He was still here, while Curtis LeMay didn’t work for the U.S. Army any more. There was a small cadre of high-ranking officers—formerly highranking officers—who didn’t work for the U.S. Army any more. None of them had ever said a word in the papers about why they didn’t work for the Army any more. Yeager suspected something truly drastic would happen to them if they did try to go to the papers.
He wondered if Harold Stassen had succeeded in rooting out everybody involved in the attack on the colonization fleet. He supposed it was possible, but had his doubts nonetheless. Stassen had probably done just enough to keep the Lizards from screaming too loud, and not a lot more.
“Good morning, Yeager,” said Colonel Edwin Webster, Sam’s superior.
“Good morning, sir.” Sam saluted. He cast a longing glance toward the coffee pot, but asked, “What’s up?” Duty came first.
Webster saw the glance. “Pour yourself some joe if you want it, Yeager,” he said. “World’s not going to end because you take the time to drink a cup.”
“Thanks.” Yeager grabbed one of the plastic-foam cups that were steadily ousting waxed cardboard. He adulterated the coffee with cream and sugar, then came back to Colonel Webster. After blowing on the coffee and taking a sip, he said, “Ready when you are, sir.”
“Come on into my office,” Webster told him, and Yeager dutifully followed him back there. His superior went on, “We’ve had a devil of a lot more reports of animals and plants from Home in the Southwest and South the past couple of months. I know that’s what you were working on when you went on detached duty there this summer, so it seemed logical to call you in to have a look at them.”
“Detached duty,” Yeager echoed in a hollow voice. “Yeah.”
He eyed Colonel Webster. He’d been detached from his duty, all right, detached from it by a couple of fellows speaking in the name of the government of the United States and carrying pistols to back their play. He’d gone to Desert Center. After that, he might have fallen off the edge of the world. Detached duty was a cover story that could fit almost anything. Did Webster know more than he was letting on? If he did, Sam couldn’t see it on his face.
You start looking for people who know more than they’re letting on and you’ll start hearing voices pretty soon,
he thought.
They’ll come after you with a net and put you in a rubber room. Of course, if you don’t worry at all about what happens to you, you’re liable to disappear again, and this time odds are you won’t come back.