After whispering to each other, the Security males made the affirmative gesture. "On your snout be it," one of them said. He left. His partner stayed.

"I thank you, superior sir," Gorppet said quietly.

"I warned you when I recruited you for Security that we would not tolerate large-scale ginger operations," Hozzanet said. "But you have a chance to redeem yourself even there-if that bomb does not burst."

"If it does, spirits of Emperors past will judge us," Nesseref said, and cast down her eye turrets.

"That is a truth," Hozzanet agreed. "And they will judge harshly-they have never heard of ginger."

"What you need to do," Nesseref said, "is to get into communication with Anielewicz and help him persuade his fellow Jews not to detonate the explosive-metal bomb. If not..." She found herself puzzled and dismayed. She had never thought she would have any great use for a ginger dealer, but Gorppet plainly worked hard on his actual duties when he was not involved with the herb. And he didn't seem to use it as some males did, as a tool to get females to mate with him.

Now he made the affirmative gesture. "That is a truth, superior female. It is what I need to do-or you, if you think the Big Ugly more likely to heed a friend than an acquaintance. But do you have any idea how to accomplish it without inciting the other Jewish Tosevites to set off the bomb?"

Wishing she could do anything else but, Nesseref used the negative gesture.

Prevod was an excellent writer. Straha would never have asked her to collaborate with him had he not liked some of her work he'd seen. And, as he saw from the prose the two of them produced together, his memoirs would be an egg-smasher to set tongues wagging for years ... ... if they were ever published. He'd always expected Atvar to prove an obstacle to publication. He hadn't expected the same problem from his coauthor. if they were ever published. He'd always expected Atvar to prove an obstacle to publication. He hadn't expected the same problem from his coauthor.

"But, Shiplord, you cannot say that !" Prevod exclaimed, not for the first time, when Straha outlined another of the quarrels that had led to his barely unsuccessful effort to overthrow Atvar as fleetlord of the conquest fleet.

"And why not?" Straha demanded. He liked it that she was polite enough to call him shiplord, shiplord, even though he was no longer ent.i.tled to wear the body paint showing him to be the third most powerful male in the conquest fleet. "It is a truth. I never stopped warning him that his half measures would lead to trouble. He continued them, and they did indeed lead to trouble." even though he was no longer ent.i.tled to wear the body paint showing him to be the third most powerful male in the conquest fleet. "It is a truth. I never stopped warning him that his half measures would lead to trouble. He continued them, and they did indeed lead to trouble."

"Have you got doc.u.mentary evidence to support this?" Prevod asked.

"I am sure such evidence exists," Straha said. "I did not offer this advice in secret, but in meetings of the high-ranking officers of the fleet. Those records would have been preserved."

"Can we gain access to them?" Prevod asked. "Or are they concealed from general view under secrecy regulations?"

"The latter, I would suspect," Straha said. "Atvar would not be eager to have his inept.i.tude displayed for everyone to see." He hesitated. When he went on, his tone was grudging: "And, I admit, even now we might not want the Big Uglies to learn how divided and uncertain we were in those days. They might think that malady still afflicted us. And"-acid returned to his voice-"with Atvar still in command, they might be right."

Prevod sighed. "Without the doc.u.mentation, Shiplord, how can I hope to include this incident in the book?"

Straha sighed, too. "I am not writing a history text here, you know. Footnotes are not mandatory." He studied Prevod. She was young and bright and highly skilled with words. When he engaged her, he'd thought that would be enough. He'd thought it would be more than enough, in fact. What he thought now was, Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was wrong. Swinging an eye turret her way, he asked, "Have you ever felt inclined to challenge authority?" Swinging an eye turret her way, he asked, "Have you ever felt inclined to challenge authority?"

"Why, no, Shiplord." She sounded astonished that he should put such a question to her. "Those senior to me are generally senior for good reason. They know more than I do, and have more experience. Should I not learn from them rather than trying to subst.i.tute my inferior judgment for theirs?"

That was the response a female of the Race should have given. It was the response the large majority of males and females would have given. Straha knew as much. But hearing it now frustrated him no end. "If those in authority make a mistake, should you not point it out? If you fail to point it out, will they not go on making it-and probably making other mistakes as well?"

"Their own superiors are the ones who should correct them," Prevod replied. "That is not an appropriate role for an inferior."

"Who was Atvar's superior?" Straha asked. "He made mistakes. He made them in huge lots. Who was to point them out to him? He had no superiors here. He still has none-and he is probably still making mistakes."

"In my opinion, rehashing a past that cannot be changed will not gain you many readers," Prevod said. "You would create a far more entertaining and exciting book by concentrating on the foibles of the Big Uglies and on your return to the Race with the information about which group of Tosevites attacked the colonization fleet. Do remember, most of those who read the book will have come here as members of the colonization fleet, not the conquest fleet."

"I understand that," Straha said. "You want this to be an entertaining and exciting memoir, then, not an important one?"

"If no one reads it, how can it be an important memoir?" Prevod said.

By the Emperor, how I want a taste of ginger, Straha thought. Straha thought. By the Emperor, how I By the Emperor, how I need need a taste of ginger. a taste of ginger. He refrained, though it wasn't easy. He knew he would have a harder time putting up with Prevod if he did taste. Picking his words with care, he said, "One of the so-called foibles you mention was an honesty so thoroughgoing, the male who possessed it gave me information that would harm his own not-empire and his own species because he judged that the right thing to do. How many males and females of the Race could hope to match him? But perhaps that would not amuse my readers enough to be entertaining." He refrained, though it wasn't easy. He knew he would have a harder time putting up with Prevod if he did taste. Picking his words with care, he said, "One of the so-called foibles you mention was an honesty so thoroughgoing, the male who possessed it gave me information that would harm his own not-empire and his own species because he judged that the right thing to do. How many males and females of the Race could hope to match him? But perhaps that would not amuse my readers enough to be entertaining."

He intended his words for sarcasm. But Prevod took them literally, saying, "Many would think well of the Big Ugly under those circ.u.mstances. Having a sympathetic Tosevite appear might make for an interesting novelty."

"We both use the language of the Race," Straha said, "but I wonder if we speak the same tongue. Maybe I should go on in English." He spoke the last sentence in the Tosevite language. He hadn't used it since fleeing the United States.

"What did you just say?" Now Prevod sounded interested. When he told her, she went on, "Did you have to learn that Tosevite tongue? Were the Big Uglies too ignorant to learn ours?"

"You really ought to know better," Straha said. "Some of them not only speak it but write it quite well." That was when he realized he'd lost his temper, for he added, "About as well as you do, in fact."

Prevod's tailstump quivered in anger. She said, "That is ridiculous."

"Is it?" Yes, Straha had lost his temper. He wrote an electronic message to Sam Yeager under the name of Maargyees that Yeager used to fool the Race's computer network: I am trying to persuade a certain-a very certain-female that you are literate in our language. I am trying to persuade a certain-a very certain-female that you are literate in our language.

Luck was with him, for a reply came back almost at once: I am sorry, Shiplord, but I cannot write it any more than I can speak it. I am sorry, Shiplord, but I cannot write it any more than I can speak it.

I see, Straha wrote back. Straha wrote back. And why not? And why not?

Because I am only a Big Ugly, of course, Sam Yeager returned. Sam Yeager returned. How can anyone without a tailstump have any brains? That is where the Race keeps them, is it not? How can anyone without a tailstump have any brains? That is where the Race keeps them, is it not?

I often wonder if we keep them anywhere, Straha wrote. Straha wrote.

Well, in that case you are wasted as a male of the Race, his Tosevite friend answered. his Tosevite friend answered. You really ought to turn into a Big Ugly. You really ought to turn into a Big Ugly.

Straha's mouth fell open in startled laughter. He swung an eye turret away from the monitor and back toward Prevod. "Do you see what I mean?"

The writer's tailstump was twitching more than ever. "If you care for his writing so much, Shiplord"-now she used the t.i.tle as one of reproach, not respect; he could hear the difference in her voice-"maybe you ought to get him to compose your memoirs with you."

"Do you know," Straha said slowly, "that is not the worst idea I have ever heard. Of course, most of the worst ideas I have ever heard have come straight from Atvar's mouth."

He meant the joke to soften what he'd said just before. It didn't do the job. Prevod sprang to her feet. "Whomever you use to help you write your memoirs, I shall not be that female," she said. "As far as I can see, the Race was right to keep you far away-you fit in better with the Tosevite barbarians than you do with us." She punctuated that with an emphatic cough. And, before Straha could say anything, she stormed out of his chamber in Shepheard's Hotel and slammed the door behind her.

"Oh, dear," Straha said aloud. Then he started to laugh. He went back to the computer and wrote, Are you still there, Sam Yeager? Are you still there, Sam Yeager?

No, I am not here, Yeager replied. Yeager replied. I expect to be back pretty soon, though. I expect to be back pretty soon, though.

That was, on the face of it, absurd. No male of the Race would have thought to write any such self-contradictory sentences. And yet, as an answer to a rhetorical question, why wasn't no as good as yes? Straha returned to the keyboard and wrote, How would you like to help me put my memoirs together? How would you like to help me put my memoirs together?

What happened to the writer you were working with? the Tosevite asked. the Tosevite asked.

You did, Straha answered. Straha answered.

This time, the only symbol Sam Yeager sent was the one the Race used as a written equivalent of an interrogative cough.

It is, unfortunately, a truth, Straha told him. Straha told him. I made an invidious comparison between her writing ability and yours, and, for some reason or other, she took offense. I now find myself without a collaborator. Are you interested in becoming one? You know the story I aim to tell. You should: you have interrogated me about a good deal of it. I made an invidious comparison between her writing ability and yours, and, for some reason or other, she took offense. I now find myself without a collaborator. Are you interested in becoming one? You know the story I aim to tell. You should: you have interrogated me about a good deal of it.

The Big Ugly didn't reply for some little while. When he did, he wrote, Sorry for the delay. I had to find out what "invidious" meant. You must be joking, Shiplord. Sorry for the delay. I had to find out what "invidious" meant. You must be joking, Shiplord.

By no means, Straha wrote, and used the symbol for an emphatic cough. Straha wrote, and used the symbol for an emphatic cough.

Well, if you are not, you ought to be, Sam Yeager wrote back. Sam Yeager wrote back. I do not write your language well enough for males and females of the Race to want to read my words. They would be able to tell I am a Big Ugly. Your computers figured out that I was, because I sound as if I am writing English. I do not write your language well enough for males and females of the Race to want to read my words. They would be able to tell I am a Big Ugly. Your computers figured out that I was, because I sound as if I am writing English.

Computers do not read. Readers read, Straha insisted. Straha insisted. Your way of writing is interesting and unusual, whatever makes it so. Your way of writing is interesting and unusual, whatever makes it so.

I thank you, Shiplord, Sam Yeager replied. Sam Yeager replied. I thank you very much. You have paid me a great compliment. But I cannot do this. And your chances of getting your memoir published go up if you have a member of the Race writing with you, and go down with me. You cannot say that is not a truth. I thank you very much. You have paid me a great compliment. But I cannot do this. And your chances of getting your memoir published go up if you have a member of the Race writing with you, and go down with me. You cannot say that is not a truth.

If any Tosevite is a hero among the Race, you are that male, Straha wrote. Straha wrote. Your name would help the memoir, not hurt it. Your name would help the memoir, not hurt it.

Maybe-but maybe not, too, his friend responded. his friend responded. And having my name on your memoir would not help me here in the United States. I may be a hero to the Race, but many Americans still think I am a traitor. And having my name on your memoir would not help me here in the United States. I may be a hero to the Race, but many Americans still think I am a traitor.

Straha hadn't considered that. He realized he should have. Very well, then, Very well, then, he wrote. he wrote. Farewell for now Farewell for now Farewell, Sam Yeager wrote back. Sam Yeager wrote back. Barbara has just called me to supper. Good luck finding another male or female to work with. Barbara has just called me to supper. Good luck finding another male or female to work with.

"Good luck," Straha said mournfully. "I will need more than luck. I will need a miracle. Several miracles, very likely. And I do not believe in miracles. I have been in exile too long to believe in miracles."

He'd been an exile from the Race, and now he was an exile among the Race. He hadn't been at home in the United States, and he didn't feel at home now that he'd managed to return to the society the Race was building on Tosev 3. I probably would not feel at home if I went into cold sleep and flew back to Home. I probably would not feel at home if I went into cold sleep and flew back to Home. If he didn't fit in among the Race here, how would the smug and stifling society back on the homeworld seem to him? If he didn't fit in among the Race here, how would the smug and stifling society back on the homeworld seem to him?

He went over to the ginger jar Atvar had let him have. He took a big taste. As euphoria filled him, he patted the jar with an affectionate hand. With ginger, if nowhere else, he found himself at home.

David Goldfarb took a last long look at the notes he'd been fooling with for the past few months. The time for fooling was over. Now he had to get to work. He wasn't going to refine his concept any further on paper. He would have to see what he got when he turned scribbles and sketches into something real.

Part of him was nervous, heart-poundingly nervous. When he started working for real instead of on paper, he might turn out not to be able to make anything worth having. But the rest of him, the larger part, was eager. He'd learned electronics-or what people knew of electronics before the Lizards came-by tinkering. He still sometimes felt he thought better with his hands than with his head.

He got up from his table. "I'm going out for a bit," he told Hal Walsh. "I need to pick up a couple of things we haven't got here."

His boss nodded. "Okay. Bring the receipts back, too, and I'll reimburse you."

"Thanks," Goldfarb said. "I'm not sure you'll want to when you see what I've got, but ... ..." He shrugged.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," Walsh said, but he was grinning.

Jack Devereaux looked up from the circuit he was soldering. "I'm almost sure I don't," he said, which made Walsh laugh. Goldfarb was grinning as he put on his overcoat. Hal was a pretty good chap to work for, no doubt about it.

His grin slipped when he went outside. Edmonton in late November was raw and bl.u.s.tery, with the wind feeling as if there were nothing at all between the North Pole and the street down which he was walking. People seemed to take it in stride. David didn't think he ever would. The British Isles lay this far north, too, but the Gulf Stream moderated their climate. Nothing Goldfarb had seen moderated the climate here.

Fortunately, the shop he wanted was only a couple of blocks from the Saskatchewan River Widget Works. He bought what he needed and went back to the Widget Works with his purchases in a big paper sack. Before he headed back, though, he made sure he took the receipt out of the sack and stuck it in his pocket. If things went the way he hoped, Hal Walsh would would pay him back. If they didn't, his boss would laugh at him. pay him back. If they didn't, his boss would laugh at him.

He shook his head. Hal wouldn't laugh. Not everything worked out, and Walsh was smart enough to understand as much. But if this didn't work, it would fail rather more spectacularly than other failed projects at the Widget Works. And, Goldfarb suspected, Jack Devereaux would never let him forget about it, even if his boss did.

Devereaux and Walsh both looked up when David came in carrying the big sack. "Doughnuts?" Devereaux asked hopefully.

"That would be a lot of doughnuts," Hal Walsh observed. Devereaux nodded, as if to say that the prospect of a lot of doughnuts didn't bother him a bit.

"Sorry, blokes." Goldfarb upended the sack on his work table. Four large, fuzzy teddy bears spilled out. One spilled a little too far, and ended on the floor. He picked it up and put it with the others.

In interested tones, Devereaux asked, "Are those for your second childhood or for your children's first?"

"With a spot of luck, neither," Goldfarb replied. As if to prove as much, he seized an Exacto knife and slit one of the bears from neck to crotch. He started pulling out stuffing and tossing it in the wastebasket. Devereaux made horrified noises. Goldfarb looked up from his work with what he hoped was a suitably demented grin. "Didn't know you were working along-side the Ripper, Jack?"

Devereaux made more horrified noises, this time at the pun rather than at the carnage David was inflicting on the defenseless toy. Hal Walsh in-quired, "What are are you doing besides getting this place ankle-deep in fluff?" you doing besides getting this place ankle-deep in fluff?"

"I hope I'm playing Dr. Frankenstein," Goldfarb answered, whereupon Jack Devereaux lurched stiff-legged around the office in one of the worst Boris Karloff impressions David had ever seen. Refusing to let the other engineer get his goat, or even his bear, he nodded. "That's right, Jack. Without the little motors and the little batteries the Lizards have shown us how to make-to say nothing of their compact circuits-I never could have imagined this. As things are-"

"You've had the chance to go crazy in a whole different way," Devereaux said.

David shrugged. "Maybe. I'm going to try to find out."

"Dr. Frankenstein?" Walsh eyed him. The boss was n.o.body's fool. "By G.o.d, you're going to make an animated teddy bear, aren't you?"

"I'm going to try," Goldfarb answered. "They used to do this kind of thing with gears and clockwork, but I got to thinking that electronics are a lot more flexible."

Jack Devereaux's eyes lit up. "That's a d.a.m.n good idea, David. I don't know if you can make it walk on two legs, but something that moves its arms, moves its eyes, and still stays cute as all get-out . . . . . We, or somebody, could sell a lot of those." We, or somebody, could sell a lot of those."

With another nod, Goldfarb said, "I'm thinking the same thing. And something that talks, too: those sound chips are cheap to make. And maybe..." He snapped his fingers in delight at coming up with an idea not in his notes; sure as h.e.l.l, working with his hands was inspirational. "We could hide a little infrared sensor right on the thing's nose, so n.o.body would need to actually flip a switch to turn it on."

"The more I hear of this, the better I like it," Walsh said. "I really do. We get the design patent, then license it for manufacture, and we might rake in a very nice piece of change, a very nice piece of change indeed. We need a name for 'em, though. What'll we call 'em? Fluffies?" He batted at a wisp of teddy-bear stuffing floating in the air. "How's that sound? Fluffies." He c.o.c.ked his head to one side, considering the flavor of the name.

"Not Fluffies," Goldfarb said. "Furries."

"David's right." Jack Devereaux nodded vigorously. "The fluff's on the inside, where it won't show. The fur's right out there in plain sight."

After a moment's thought, Walsh nodded, too. "Okay, Furries it is. We've got a name. We've got an idea. Now let's make it real." He beamed at Goldfarb. "How would you like to be driving a Cadillac by this time next year?"

"I don't like driving anything here," David answered. "It still feels like I'm on the wrong side of the b.l.o.o.d.y road. But if I have to drive anything, a Cadillac wouldn't be bad. This side of a tank, I couldn't very well get any more iron around me."

"This is putting the car before the horse-or before the Furry, I should say," Devereaux pointed out. "Like Hal said, we need a real one, so we can see if we've got anything worth having."

"If you hadn't interrupted me at my surgery, I'd be on the way there already." Goldfarb went over to the parts bin that ran along one wall of the office and started rummaging through them. Though he didn't know it, his face wore an enormous smile. Tinkering made him happy-yes, indeed.

Once he had the idea and the parts, the Furry presented no enormous technical challenges. The biggest was getting all the components into its belly and still retaining enough stuffing to keep it huggable. A teddy bear that wasn't soft, he reasoned, would lose half its appeal.

"Now what are you doing?" Devereaux asked a little later. "Brain surgery?" what are you doing?" Devereaux asked a little later. "Brain surgery?"

Exacto in hand, David nodded. "You might say so. Occurred to me this fellow might have big blinking eyes instead of the gla.s.s b.u.t.tons he came with. But if he's going to get them, I've got to open up his head."

He used the knife to slice up hollow plastic b.a.l.l.s, and colored them with the pens in his shirt pocket. They required another little motor, this one inside the head. Jack Devereaux clicked his tongue between his teeth at the result. "If I saw anything with eyes like that, I'd run like h.e.l.l."

"It's a prototype, dammit," Goldfarb snapped. "It lets me know what I can do and what I can't. The next one will be prettier."

He installed the infrared sensor in the Furry's nose, and some sound chips and a little speaker behind the mouth. When he aimed an infrared beam at the revamped teddy bear, it spoke in muddy tones: "Here, p.i.s.s off."

"Hmm," Hal Walsh said. "We may have to work on that just a bit."

Everybody laughed. Then Walsh asked, "Do you suppose you can make it move its lips while it talks, the same way it moves its eyes?"