Striking the Balance

Russie made more grunts by way of reply. Zolraag turned them into words a person could understand: “His answer is not altogether germane, Exalted Fleetlord. He expresses relief that the negotiator from Deutschland departed without embroiling the Race and the Tosevites in fresh warfare.”

“I confess to a certain amount of relief on this score myself,” Atvar said. “After that pompous pronouncement the Big Ugly issued which proved to be either a bluff or a spectacular example of Deutsch incompetence-our analysis there is still incomplete-I did indeed anticipate renewed combat. But the Tosevites apparently decided to be rational instead.”

Zolraag translated for Russie, whose reply made his mouth fall open in amusement. “He says expecting the Deutsche to be rational is like expecting good weather in the middle of winter: you may get it, yes, for a day or two, but most of the time you will be disappointed.”

“Expect anything from either Tosevites or Tosevite weather and most of the time you will be disappointed-though you need not translate that,” the fleetlord answered. Russie was looking at him with what he thought was alertness; he remembered the Big Ugly did know some of the language of the Race. Atvar shrugged mentally; Russie already had a good notion of his opinion of Tosevites. He said, “Tell him that, sooner or later, his people will be subjects of the Emperor.”

Zolraag dutifully told him. Russie did not answer, not directly. Instead, he went back to the window and stared out once more. Atvar felt only annoyance: the Tosevite aircraft was long gone by now. But Russie still kept looking out through the glass without saying anything.

“What is he doing?” Atvar snapped at last, patience deserting him.

Zolraag put the question. Through him, Moishe Russie replied, “I am looking across the Nile at the Pyramids.”

“Why?” Atvar said, irritated still. “What do you care about these-what were they? — these large funerary monuments, is that it? They are massive, yes, but barbarous even by Tosevite standards.”

“My ancestors were slaves in this country three, maybe four thousand years ago,” Russie told him. “Maybe they helped build the Pyramids. That’s what our legends say, though I don’t know if it’s true. Who cares about the ancient Egyptians now? They were mighty, but they are gone. We Jews were slaves, but we’re still here. How can you know what will happen from what is now?”

Now Atvar’s mouth fell open. “Tosevite pretensions to antiquity always make me laugh,” he said to Zolraag. “Hear how the Big Ugly speaks of three or four thousand years-six or eight thousand of ours-as if it were a long time in historic terms. We had already absorbed both the Rabotevs and the Hallessi by then, and some of us were beginning to think about the planets of the star Tosev: day before yesterday, in the history of the Race.”

“Truth, Exalted Fleetlord,” Zolraag said.

“Of course it is truth,” Atvar said, “and it is why in the end we shall triumph, our setbacks because of the Big Uglies’ unexpected technological sophistication notwithstanding. We are content to progress one small step at a time. There are whole Tosevite civilizations, as Russie just said, which moved forward at the usual Big Ugly breakneck clip-and then failed utterly. We do not have this difficulty, nor shall we ever. We are established, even if on only part of the world. With the arrival of the colonization fleet, our presence shall become unassailably permanent. We then have only to wait for another Tosevite cultural collapse, extend our influence over the area where it occurs, and repeat the process until no section of the planet remains outside the Empire’s control.”

“Truth,” Zolraag repeated. “Because of Tosevite surprises, the conquest fleet might not have accomplished quite everything the plan back on Home called for.” Kirel could not have been more cautious and diplomatic than that. Zolraag continued, “The conquest, however, does go on, just as you said. What, in the end, does it matter if it takes generations rather than days?”

“In the end, it matters not at all,” Atvar replied. “History is on our side.”

Vyacheslav Molotov coughed. The last T-34 had rumbled through Red Square a good while before, but the air was still thick with diesel fumes. If Stalin noticed them, he gave no sign. He chuckled in high good humor. “Well, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, it wasn’t quite a victory parade, not the sort I would have wanted after we’d finished crushing the Hitlerites, for instance, but it will do, it will do.”

“Indeed, Comrade General Secretary,” Molotov said. Stalin, for once, had been guilty of understatement. Molotov had gone to Cairo expecting to have nothing but trouble because of the intransigent stand Stalin required him to take. But if Stalin had disastrously misread Hitler’s intentions, he’d gauged the Lizards aright.