Because the males had little practice at debate, they weren’t very good at it. Straha’s supporters shouted and hissed at those who backed Atvar, and the fleetlord’s followers returned the compliment. They displayed their rows of pointed teeth, shoved one another, and generally behaved more like new hatchlings than staid males of respectable years.
Quietly, Kirel said, “Exalted Fleetlord, the rule in such cases is that three-fourths of the males in the rank immediately inferior to that in question must concur that its present holder is incompetent to remain at his post.”
“By the Emperor, I am not incompetent!” Atvar raged.
“I did not for a moment assert that you were, Exalted Fleetlord,” Kirel said, “but the question has been put in proper form and now must be decided.”
Atvar’s suspicions doubled, then doubled again. But formality trapped him. He knew the rules for deciding the matter, though he’d never really expected to have to use them. “Very well, Shiplord,” he said, hating every word. “Since you are next senior to me but were not personally involved in raising the question, I yield control of the meeting to you until it is settled. Be assured I shall appeal to the Emperor any action taken against me.”
“Of course, Exalted Fleetlord,” Kirel said politely, although he, Atvar, and all the assembled shiplords knew the warning was meaningless. Back on Home, an appeal to the Emperor would be heard promptly. On Rabotev 2 and Halless 1, the Emperor’s viceroys performed that duty. But from here, a radio signal would take more than ten even of Tosev 3’s long years to reach Home, while another ten of them would pass awaiting a reply. Effectively, Atvar was the Emperor’s viceroy on Tosev 3, or would be if he retained his post.
Making no effort to hide his anger, he stepped away from the podium. Rather nervously, Kirel said, “Assembled shiplords, we are gathered now in the most solemn proceeding known to the Race. We may answer the question of the exalted fleetlord’s fitness to continue in office in one of two ways: either each male may enter an anonymous yes or no at his seat, the result to be displayed electronically here, or we may publicly record each shiplord’s name and choice. How say you?”
He knows the rule very well to bring it out so pat,
Atvar thought. Had Kirel been loyal to him, or simply more cautious than Straha? Atvar would have to contemplate that . . . if he remained in any position to act on the results of his contemplation.
Straha said, “Let it be done anonymously, Superior Shiplord. That way, should the question fail”—he did not sound as if he expected it to—“the exalted fleetlord will not be in a position to take vengeance on those who questioned his competence.”
You’ll get more support that way, too, from males who would be ashamed to condemn me openly,
Atvar thought. In a way, though, that reassured him: had Straha been certain of his backing, he would have asked for a public record of names.
And no matter that the choice is anonymous, Straha: I’ll remember what
you’ve
done.
Kirel waited for any males who so desired to insist on a public record. When none did, he said, “Very well, assembled shiplords, register your choices. When the tally is complete, I shall announce the result.”
Atvar did his best to look impassive, no matter how he writhed inside. Being subjected to this tribunal of his inferiors was humiliating. It was worse than humiliating, in fact: it reminded him of the way some of the Big Ugly not-empires tried to run their affairs. The Race had expected, had intended, to bring civilization to Tosev 3. Instead, the Tosevites seemed to be barbarizing not only the shiplords but all the males of the conquest fleet.
Time stretched. After what seemed like forever, Kirel said, “Assembled shiplords, I shall now announce your decision.” Atvar stayed outwardly unconcerned, or tried to. Straha leaned forward in eager anticipation. The great hall grew as still as Atvar had ever known it; not a male wished to miss the result.
“Assembled shiplords,” Kirel said, “those favoring the removal of the fleetlord Atvar from his post constitute sixty-nine percent of your number, those favoring his retention constitute thirty-one percent. This fails to be a three-fourths majority.” He turned to Atvar. “Command us, Exalted Fleetlord.”
Atvar walked back to the podium. He looked out at the assembled shiplords, and they back at him.
Command us,
Kirel had said. Even with the Race’s traditions of obedience, could he command these males when two out of three of them had declared he was not fit to do so? He would have to find out.
And how was he supposed to treat the Big Uglies, now that they could do serious damage not only to the Race but also to their precious planet? Before, negotiations had either been about small-scale procedural matters like treatment and exchange of prisoners or over terms of surrender to the Race. Now . . . he’d have to find that out, too.
Vyacheslav Molotov hated flying. He reckoned going in a drafty biplane to Germany and then on a later air trip to England among the worst experiences of his life. But flying in a human-made airplane, however appalling that was, paled to insignificance beside taking off in a Lizard rocket ship to zoom up into outer space to talk with the commander of the imperialist aggressors from the stars.
He’d done that once before, so this time he’d known what to expect: the acceleration that pushed him back against the too-small padded seat and squeezed the air from his lungs; the sudden moment of transition, after which he seemed to weigh nothing at all and had to control his stomach as rigidly as he always controlled his face; the Saharalike temperatures the Lizards found comfortable. He’d prepared for that, at least, wearing a light cotton suit instead of his usual thick wool.
Even so, he was still sweating as he faced the fleetlord Atvar. A couple of small drops had escaped from his forehead and floated around the chamber in which he, the leader of the Lizards, and a Lizard interpreter hung at various improbable angles. The Lizards took their weightlessness utterly for granted, so he tried his best to do the same.
Atvar spoke several sentences in the Lizards’ language of hisses, pops, and clicks. The interpreter turned them into Russian: “The exalted fleetlord says you were most rash to use an atomic bomb against the Race, when we could turn so many of these weapons against you.”
Molotov had told Stalin the same thing—had, in fact, argued harder against using the atomic bomb than he’d dared argue with Stalin about anything else for years. But Stalin had overruled him, and no rain of destruction had fallen on the Soviet Union—yet. Instead, the Lizards had summoned him here to confer. Maybe that meant Stalin was right all along.
Such thoughts ran through the foreign commissar’s mind as he asked the interpreter to repeat a couple of things he hadn’t quite understood. His face remained expressionless. He nodded to the interpreter to show he’d caught the gist this time. The Lizard was much more fluent than he had been on Molotov’s previous trip to this immense spacecraft not quite a year before.
“Tell the exalted fleetlord the Race was rash to attack the peace-loving peasants and workers of the Soviet Union,” Molotov answered. “Perhaps the means we used to repel you will show you how true this is.”
“Perhaps,” Atvar said through the interpreter. “And then again, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, perhaps not. We know you made this bomb with the quantity of element 94 you stole from us. Do not try to deny it; our analysis leaves no room for doubt. When will you be able to produce bombs altogether on your own?”
“If you renew your treacherous attacks on us, I assure you that you will find out, and that the answer will not please you,” Molotov said without hesitation. Again, his features showed nothing of the fear he felt. The true answer to that question was
on the order of three years.
If the Lizards learned the true answer, the Soviet Union was hideously vulnerable to them.
His prompt reply seemed to give Atvar pause. He was relieved to see that, and even more relieved when the fleetlord partially changed the subject: “Do you not realize you destroy your own planet when you use atomic weapons?”
“That did not stop you when you bombed Berlin and Washington,” Molotov retorted. “Why did you think it would concern us? And if you win this imperialist war against mankind, Earth will no longer be
our
planet in any case. Of course we shall use all our weapons to resist you.”
“This course can lead only to your own destruction,” Atvar said.
I think you may be right.
But Molotov’s demeanor would not have shown his wife what he was thinking, let alone a Lizard. He said, “We know you have enslaved two races already, and want us to become the third. We know you have kept those other races under subjection for thousands of years, and that you plot the same fate for us. Since all this is true, and since you have not even tried to deny it is true, how can destroying ourselves be worse?”
“You would keep your lives, some of your private property—” Atvar began.
Even stone-faced as he normally was, even in the Lizards’ power, even floating in hideously unfamiliar weightlessness, Molotov burst out laughing. It took him by surprise; it also seemed to take the Lizard fleetlord and his interpreter by surprise. Molotov said, “There is no private property in the Soviet Union; private property is the result of theft. The state owns the means of production.”
Atvar and the interpreter went back and forth in their own language for a little while. When they were done, the interpreter swiveled his eyes back toward Molotov and said, “The full meaning of the concept you describe escapes us.”
“I understand that,” Molotov answered. “It is because the class struggle in your society has not progressed to the point where the dialectic of the transition from capitalism to socialism is above your mental horizon.”
As best he could, the translator rendered that into the Lizards’ language. The fleetlord Atvar made a noise that might well have come from the safety valve of a powerful steam engine. Through the interpreter, he said, “You dare, you presume, Tosevite, to call the
Race
primitive?” His mouth fell open in a Lizard laugh.
“In your system of social organization? Certainly,” Molotov said.
Despite the confidence with which he imbued his voice, he felt the paradox, for the Lizards’ technical achievements were anything but primitive. The Soviets called them imperialists, but he did not think they were out to conquer the Earth for the sake of developing new markets, as highly advanced capitalist states had done in the past few generations to delay the inevitable proletarian revolution. The Lizards’ society seemed more like that of the ancient empires, with masters ruling slaves and exploiting their labor. But the economic system of the ancient empires had been assumed to be incompatible with developing advanced technology. Marxist-Leninist theoreticians were still hammering out where the Lizards fit into the historical dialectic.
Atvar was laughing at him again, perhaps for his presumption. The fleetlord said, “Well, we care nothing for what you Tosevites think of our arrangements, and I did not summon you here to discuss them. You have made this war more dangerous for us; I do not deny that. But you have also made it more dangerous for yourselves. If you think we will hold back from responding in kind, you are badly mistaken.”
“That was not our concern,” Molotov answered.
That was not Stalin’s concern, anyhow.
“We shall do what we think best, depending on the circumstances in which we find ourselves. Withdraw your forces from the Soviet Union and you will be in no more danger from us.”
Atvar laughed again, not, Molotov thought, pleasantly. “This cannot be. I show my mercy by not treating you as a criminal, since your rulers came to power through murdering your emperor.”
The fleetlord and the translator both showed what looked like genuine revulsion. The version Atvar gave of what had happened in the Soviet Union wasn’t strictly accurate, but Molotov didn’t argue the niceties with him. The Bolsheviks had done what they had to do to stay in power; to do anything less would have been to betray the workers and common soldiers and sailors who had helped them overthrow their class enemies in the Kerensky regime.
Aloud, Molotov said, “One day, when you have advanced sufficiently, you will do the same.”
If the two Lizards had been revolted before, now they were furious. Again, they made noises that reminded Molotov of a samovar boiling with the fire too high. Atvar spat words. The interpreter proved his fluency had improved by turning them into precise, insulting Russian: “You Big Uglies are the most uncultured, odious creatures anyone could ever have imagined, and you Soviets the most uncultured and odious of the Big Uglies. To suggest such a thing—” Atvar started bubbling and sputtering again.
Molotov took no notice of the insults, but in weightlessness his glasses kept trying to escape from his nose. When he had secured them, he said, “We do not love one another. This much I already knew. Did you summon me here merely to remind me of it, or did you have serious diplomatic proposals to put to me?”
He granted Atvar a moment of professional respect when the fleetlord did return to business: “I summoned you here to warn you that under no circumstances will we tolerate any further use of nuclear weapons by any Tosevite empire, and that we reserve the right to retaliate as we see fit.”
“I can speak only for the Soviet Union, whose peace-loving workers and peasants must of course reject demands made at gunpoint,” Molotov answered. “We also reserve the right to retaliate as we see fit, especially since your forces invaded our land without reason or declaration of war. I can predict, though, that other nations will respond similarly.”
“Other empires—” Atvar let that hang in the air for a few seconds before resuming: “Other Tosevite empires are also working on nuclear weapons; of this we are certain. How can you be assured that they will use these weapons against us rather than you? The Deutsche, for instance, are already developing rockets which could carry them.”
Molotov almost betrayed himself by bursting into laughter again. The Lizard was trying to sow rivalry among his human enemies, which would have been far from the worst of ploys if he hadn’t been so obvious—and so bad—at the game. Even Ribbentrop would have seen through it.