The Lizards' air-raid alarms went off in Lodz. They weren't sirens, as they would have been had human beings made them. Instead, they reminded Mordechai Anielewicz of nothing so much as the sound of a cauldron full of sizzling fat-except the cauldron had to be half the size of Poland. They were, he gathered, an enormously amplified version of the noise a Lizard made when something frightened it.

All that ran through his mind in less time than he needed to s.n.a.t.c.h up a gas mask and stick it on his head. Then, along with the rest of the Jews in the offices above the fire station, he dashed for the sealed room. People got in one another's way, cursing and stumbling and falling down.

He made it to the sealed room just as a n.a.z.i rocket came down with a crash. He tried to gauge how far away it had landed by the sound of the explosion, but that was tricky these days. The rockets that carried gas didn't make a bang nearly so big as that from the ones carrying explosives-but they were much more to be feared, even so.

"Shut the door!" four people bawled at once.

With a slam, somebody obeyed. Packed into the middle of the sardinelike crush and turned the wrong way anyhow, Mordechai couldn't see who. He looked up at the ceiling. Fresh plaster gleamed all around its periphery, covering over the cracks between it and the walls. Similar plaster marred the paint on those walls where they joined one another and also covered the molding that had marked their separation from the floor. Even if a gas-carrying rocket hit close by, the sealed room would-everyone inside hoped-let the people it sheltered survive till the deadly stuff dissipated.

Splashes said people nearest the doorway were soaking cloths in a bucket of water and stuffing them into the cracks between the door and the wall. The German poison gas was insidious stuff. If you left a c.h.i.n.k in your armor, the gas would find it The Lizards' alarm kept hissing. Before long, the merely human air-raid siren added its wail to the cacophony. "Does that mean we're not done, or just that people are too addled to turn those noisy things off?" one of the secretaries asked, her voice m.u.f.fled by the mask she wore.

"We'll find out," Anielewicz said, along with three other men and a woman. Lately, the n.a.z.is had found a new way to keep the Lizards and humans in Lodz from getting anything done: lobbing rockets at the city every so often, making people take shelter and stay there for fear of gas. Not everyone had a sealed room to which to go, and not all sealed rooms were as cramped as this one, but the ploy was good enough to tie Lodz in knots.

"I wish the Lizards would shoot down the rockets, the way they did when the n.a.z.is first started firing them at us," a woman said.

"The Lizards are almost out of their own rockets," Mordechai answered. "These days, they only use them when one of the Germans' happens to head straight for an installation of theirs." That wasn't an everyday occurrence; while the Lizards could make rockets that went exactly where they wanted, those of the n.a.z.is were wildly inaccurate. Anielewicz went on, "If a rocket lands in the middle of Lodz, that's just too bad for the people under it."

"The Race is doing what it can for us," David Nussboym declared. Several people nodded emphatically. Mordechai Anielewicz rolled his eyes. He suspected he wasn't the only one, but with everybody in concealing gas masks, he couldn't be sure. The Jewish administration and fighters in Lodz were in a delicate position. They had to cooperate with the Lizards, and some-Nussboym among them-still did so sincerely. Others, though, hurt the aliens every chance they got, so long as they could do it without getting discovered. Keeping track of who was in which camp made life more interesting than Anielewicz liked.

Another blast, this one close enough to shake the fire station. Even without a large charge of explosive, several tons of metal falling out of the sky made for a big impact. Anielewicz shivered. Working against the Lizards often meant covertly working with the n.a.z.is, even when their poison gas was killing Jews inside Lodz. Some Jews supported the Lizards simply because they could not stomach working with the n.a.z.is no matter what.

Anielewicz understood that. He sympathized with it, but not enough to feel the same way himself. The n.a.z.is had been ga.s.sing Polish Jews before the Lizards arrived, and they'd kept right on doing it even after the Lizards took Poland away from them. They were without a doubt b.a.s.t.a.r.ds; the only good thing Mordechai could think to say about them was that they were human b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

Minutes crawled slowly past Mordechai kept hoping, praying for the all-clear signal. Instead, another rocket landed. The siren and the alarm hiss went on and on. He drew in breath after breath of stagnant air. His feet began to hurt. The only place to sit-or rather, squat-in the sealed room was over a latrine bucket in a tiny curtained corner. Just getting there wasn't easy.

At last the amplified hiss faded and the sirens changed to a warbling note before ceasing altogether. "Gevalt!" "Gevalt!" somebody said. "Let's get out of here." somebody said. "Let's get out of here."

"Is it safe?" somebody else asked. "Just because the rockets aren't coming, does that mean the gas has gone away?"

"We can't stay here forever," Mordechai said. "I'll go out and look around, see if anyone close by is down from the gas. If I don't come back in five minutes... you'll know I shouldn't have gone." With such gallows humor, he elbowed his way toward the door.

When he got outside, he was relieved not to find people lying dead on Lutomierska Street in front of the fire station. He hadn't expected he would find that; none of the explosions had sounded close enough to produce such a result. But the Germans' gas was insidious stuff, and sometimes spread more in one direction than another. The minute you stopped a.s.suming it could kill you, it probably would.

He looked around. One column of smoke was rising from the north, from the Polish part of Lodz, the area where Germans who'd called the place Litzmannstadt had settled before the Lizards came. Not many of them were left; the Poles and the Jews had had their revenge. Too bad, in a way. There would have been delicious irony in the n.a.z.is' ga.s.sing the Germans they'd sent out to dwell in a land that wasn't theirs.

More smoke, though, rose from closer to home. One of the rockets had hit in the Jewish district. That must have been the second one, Mordechai thought, the one that shook the station. He snarled. Even now, fighting the Lizards, the n.a.z.is were killing Jews. He was sure they knew it, too. They probably thought it was a h.e.l.l of a good joke-and that some of the Jews were cooperating with them against the Lizards an even better one.

He went back inside before the people in the sealed room decided he'd become a casualty, too. He hurried upstairs. "It's safe to come out," he said. "We had a hit in the ghetto, though." Now that the Germans were gone, it wasn't formally a ghetto any more. It still functioned as one, though, and the name lingered.

"The fire engine will have to go tend to it," David Nussboym said. "I volunteer to ride along." That took courage; the Germans' gas could kill you not only if you breathed it but if it got on your skin. Anielewicz would have preferred to think of anyone who collaborated with the Lizards as a spineless coward. Nussboym complicated his picture of the world.

He wanted to volunteer himself, to show Nussboym people who disagreed with him had spirit, too. But he made himself keep quiet. With the collaborator away from the offices, people who wanted to deal with the Lizards instead of sucking up to them could speak freely.

"Come on," said Solomon Gruver, the big, burly man who led the fire brigade and drove the engine. His men and Nussboym ran for the stairs.

"I hope the people in the area are already hosing down the streets and the buildings," Anielewicz said. "Between them and the engines, they should be able to flush most of the gas down the mains." He laughed, a haunted, hollow sound inside his mask. "We're so used to dealing with the unspeakable that we've got very good at developing procedures for it. Either that proves we're clever and quick or that we're utterly d.a.m.ned. Maybe both."

The fire engine roared away, bell clanging. "Do you think we can take our masks off?" a woman named Bertha Fleishman asked. She was drab and mousy; no one, human or Lizard, took any special notice of her. That made her one of the most valuable spies the Jews in Lodz had: she could go anywhere, hear anything, and report back.

"Let's find out." Anielewicz pulled the mask off his head. He took a couple of deep breaths, then gasped and crumpled to the floor. Instead of crying out in alarm and dismay, people swore at him and looked around for things to throw. The first time he'd played that joke, they'd been properly horrified. Now they halfway looked for it, though he didn't do it all the time.

The rest of the people in the sealed room took off their masks, too. "Whew!" someone said. "It's just about as stuffy in here with them off as it is with them on."

"What are we going to do?" Bertha Fleishman said. "If we get rid of the Lizards, we get the Germans back. For us in particular, that would be worse, even if having the Germans win and the Lizards lose would be better for people as a whole. After we've suffered so much, shouldn't we be able to live a little?" She sounded wistful, plaintive.

"Why should this time be different from all other times?" Anielewicz said. The reply, so close to the first of the Four Questions from the Pa.s.sover Seder but expecting a different response, brought a sigh from everyone in the room. He went on, "The real question should be, What do we do if the Lizards get sick of the Germans hara.s.sing them and decide to put everything they have into smashing the Reich Reich?"

"They tried that against the English," a man said. "It didn't work."

"And thank G.o.d it didn't," Mordechai said, wondering if he'd sent Moishe Russie into worse danger than that from which he'd escaped. "But it's not the same. The Lizards' logistics in England were very bad. They had to fly all their soldiers and all their supplies up from southern France, so it was almost as if they were trying to invade by remote control. It wouldn't be like that if they attacked the n.a.z.is. They're right next door to them, here and in France both."

"Whatever they do, they probably won't do it right away, not with snow on the ground," Bertha Fleishman said. "They hate the cold. Come next spring, it may be something to worry about. Until then, I think they'll hold back and try to ride out whatever the n.a.z.is throw at them."

Thinking about the way the Lizards did things, Anielewicz slowly nodded. "You may be right," he said. "But that only gives us more time to answer the question. It doesn't make it go away."

Teerts did not like flying over Deutschland. He hadn't liked flying over Britain, either, and for much that same reason: more and more Tosevite jets in the air, along with antiaircraft fire that seemed thick enough to let him get out of his killercraft and walk from one sh.e.l.l burst to the next.

His mouth dropped open in ironic laughter. Fire from the Big Uglies' antiaircraft guns had done no more than put a couple of holes in the skin of his killercraft. As best he could figure, the one time he'd been shot down was when he'd had the colossal bad luck to suck infantrymales' bullets into both engine turbines in the s.p.a.ce of a couple of moments... and his luck had only got worse once he descended inside the Nipponese lines.

He never, ever wanted to be captured again. "I'd sooner die," he said.

"Superior sir?" That was Sserep, one of his wingmales.

"Nothing," Teerts said, embarra.s.sed at letting his thoughts go out over an open microphone.

He checked his radar. The Deutsche had some killercraft in the air, but none close enough to his flight to be worth attacking. He also watched the Tosevites' aircraft to make sure they weren't pilotless machines like the ones he'd encountered over Britain. Orders on conserving antiaircraft missiles got more emphatic with every pa.s.sing day. Before long, he expected the fleetlord to issue one that said something like, If you have already been shot down and killed, it is permissible to expend one missile against the enemy aircraft responsible; expenditure of two will result in severe punishment. If you have already been shot down and killed, it is permissible to expend one missile against the enemy aircraft responsible; expenditure of two will result in severe punishment.

He spotted a dark gray plume of smoke rising up from the ground and hissed with glee. That was a railroad engine, burning one of the incredibly noxious fuels the Tosevites' machines employed. Whatever a railroad engine was hauling-Big Uglies, weapons, supplies-it was a prime target He spoke to Sserep and Nivvek, his other wingmale, to make sure they saw it, too, then said, "Let's go shoot it up."

He dropped down to low alt.i.tude and reduced his airspeed to make sure he could do a proper job of raking the target. His fingerclaw stabbed at the firing b.u.t.ton of the cannon. Flames stabbed out from the nose of his killercraft; the recoil of the cannon and the turbulence from the fired sh.e.l.ls made it shudder slightly in the air.

He yelled with savage glee as puffs of smoke spurted from the railroad cars. As he shot over the locomotive that pulled the train, he yanked the stick back hard to gain some alt.i.tude and come around for another pa.s.s. Acceleration tugged at him; the world went gray for a moment. He swung the killercraft through a ninety-degree roll so he could look back at the train. He yelled again; either Sserep or Nivvek had hit the engine hard, and it was slowing to a stop. Now he and the other two males could finish destroying it at their leisure.

Off in the middle distance on his radar set, something-half a dozen somethings-rose almost vertically into the air. "What are those?" Nivvek exclaimed.

"Nothing to worry about, I don't think," Teerts answered. "If the Deutsche are experimenting with antiaircraft missiles of their own, they have some more experimenting to do, I'd say."

"Truth, superior sir," Nivvek said, amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice. "None of our aircraft is even in the neighborhood of those-whatever-they-ares."

"So I see," Teerts said. If they were missiles, they were pretty feeble. Like other Tosevite flying machines, they seemed unable to exceed the speed of sound in the local atmosphere. They climbed toward the peak of their arc in what looked to be a ballistic trajectory... whereupon Teerts forgot about them and gave his attention over to smashing up the train.

It had been carrying infantrymales, perhaps among other things. The first pa.s.s hadn't got all of them, either; some had bailed out of the damaged coaches. The gray-green clothes they wore were hard to see against the ground, but muzzle flashes told Teerts some of them were shooting at him. Memories of the Nipponese made fear blow through him in a choking cloud-what if the Big Uglies got lucky twice with him?

They didn't. His killercraft performed flawlessly as he flailed them with cannon fire. Sh.e.l.ls smashed at them; they boiled like the waves of Tosev 3's oversized oceans. He hoped he'd slaughtered hundreds of them. They weren't Nipponese, but they were Big Uglies, and in arms against the Race. No qualms about killing civilians diluted his revenge, not here, not now.

He pulled back on his stick again. The train was afire at several places up and down its length; one more run would finish the job of destroying it. Now that the nose of his killercraft was pointing upward again, he checked the radar screen to make sure no Deutsch aircraft were approaching.

Sserep must have done the same thing at the same time, for he shouted, "Superior sir!"

"I see them," Teerts answered grimly. The Deutsch machines he'd dismissed as experimental-and inept-antiaircraft missiles were diving on his flight of killercraft, and plainly under intelligent control. For the Tosevites, that meant they had to be piloted; the Big Uglies didn't have automatic systems good enough for the job.

With a small shock, he saw that the Tosevite aircraft were flying faster than his own machine. At least momentarily, that let them choose terms of engagement, something rare in their air-to-air engagements with the Race. He gave his killercraft maximum power; acceleration shoved him back against the seat. The Big Uglies wouldn't keep the advantage long.

"I am firing missiles, superior sir," Sserep said. "After we get back to base, I'll argue about it with the males in Supply who seem to spend all their time counting pieces of eggsh.e.l.l. The point is to be able to get back to to base." base."

Teerts didn't argue. The missiles streaked past his killercraft, tailing thin plumes of smoke. The Tosevites' aircraft had smoky exhaust, too, far more smoky than that of the missiles. With hideous speed, they swelled from specks to swept-wing killercraft of peculiar design-just before he stabbed his firing b.u.t.ton with a fingerclaw, he had a fractional instant to wonder how they maintained stability without tailfins.

Whatever the details of the aerodynamics, maintain stability they did. One of them managed to sideslip a missile. Electronics would have been hard-pressed to do that; for mere flesh and blood to accomplish it was little short of a miracle. Sserep's other missile exploded its target in a spectacular midair fireball that made Teerts' nict.i.tating membranes flick out to protect his eyes from the flash. What in the name of the Emperor were the Big Uglies using for fuel?

That thought, too, quickly faded. He blazed away at the strange machine heading straight for his killercraft. Winking flashes of light at its wing roots said it was shooting at him, too. Deutsch killercraft carried cannon; they could do real damage if they scored hits.

Without warning, the Big Ugly aircraft blew up as violently as the one Sserep's missile had hit "Yes!" Teerts shouted. The only feeling that matched midair triumph was a good taste of ginger.

"Superior sir, I regret to report that my aircraft is damaged," Nivvek said. "I waited too long before firing missiles, and they shot past the Tosevites: they were still too close to me to arm their warheads. I am losing speed and alt.i.tude, and fear I shall have to eject. Wish me luck."

"Spirits of Emperors past go with you, Nivvek," Teerts said, gnashing his teeth in anguish. Urgently, he added, "Try to stay away from the Big Uglies on the ground. As long as you can keep clear of them, your radio beacon gives you some chance of being rescued." How good a chance, here in the middle of Deutschland, he tried not to think about. His own memories of captivity were too sharp and dreadful.

Nivvek did not answer. Sserep said, "He has ejected, superior sir; I saw the capsule blast free of his killercraft and the parachute deploy." He paused, then went on, "I don't have the fuel to loiter till rescue aircraft come."

After a quick glance at his own gauges, Teerts said, "Neither have I," hating every word. He checked his radar. Only one of the Deutsch killercraft was still in the air, streaking away at low alt.i.tude. Sserep and Nivvek hadn't been idle-nor had he. He turned and expended one of his missiles. It streaked after the strange little tailless aircraft and blew it out of the sky.

"That's the last of those," Sserep said. "The Emperor grant that we don't see their like again soon."

"Truth," Teerts said feelingly. "The Big Uglies keep coming up with new things." He said that as if he'd been accusing them of devouring their own hatchlings. Against what they'd had when the Race landed on Tosev 3, combat had been a walkover. Only males who were unlucky-as Teerts had been-got shot down. Now, at least above the western end of the main continental ma.s.s, you had to earn your living every moment in the air.

"We won't even be able to cannibalize spares from Nivvek's aircraft," Sserep said, his voice sad.

Somewhere down there in a Deutsch factory, Big Ugly technicians were welding and riveting the airframes for more of their nasty little killercraft. Somewhere down there, Big Ugly pilots were learning to fly them. The Race made do with what it had brought along. Day by day, less and less of that remained. What would happen when it was all gone? One more thing to think about.

Teerts used satellite relay to call both his base in southern France and the nearest air base the Race held east of Deutschland, in the territory called Poland. Nivvek's rescue alarm should have been received at both of them, but Teerts was taking no chances. He got the feeling the base in Poland had more things to worry about than Nivvek; the male to whom he spoke spent half his time babbling about a Deutsch rocket attack.

Teerts wondered why antimissile missiles didn't protect the base. The most obvious-and the most depressing-answer was that no missiles were left. If that was so... how soon would he be flying without any antiaircraft missiles? What would happen when his radar broke down and no spare parts were left?

"We'll be even with the Big Uglies," he said, and shuddered at the thought of it.

Liu Han stared at the row of characters on a sheet of paper in front of her. Her face was a mask of concentration; the tip of her tongue slipped out between her lips without her noticing. She gripped a pencil as if it were a dagger, then remembered she wasn't supposed to hold it that way and shifted it back between her index and middle fingers.

Slowly, painstakingly, she copied the characters written on the sheet of paper. She knew what they said: Scaly devils, give back the baby you stole from Liu Han at your camp near Shanghai. Scaly devils, give back the baby you stole from Liu Han at your camp near Shanghai. She wanted to make sure the little devils could read what she wrote. She wanted to make sure the little devils could read what she wrote.

When she'd finished the sentence, she took a pair of shears and clipped off the strip of paper on which she'd written. Then she picked up the pencil and wrote the sentence again. She had a great bundle of strips, all saying the same thing. She was also getting a new callus, just behind the nail on her right middle finger. A lifetime of farming, cooking, and sewing had left her skin still soft and smooth there. Now that she was doing something less physically demanding than any of those, it marked her. She shook her head. Nothing was as simple as it first seemed.

She started writing the sentence yet again. Now she knew the sound and meaning of each character in it. She could write her own name, which brought her its own kind of excitement. And, when she was out on the streets and hutungs hutungs of Peking, she sometimes recognized characters she'd written over and over, and could occasionally even use them to figure out the meanings of other characters close by them. Little by little, she was learning to read. of Peking, she sometimes recognized characters she'd written over and over, and could occasionally even use them to figure out the meanings of other characters close by them. Little by little, she was learning to read.

Someone knocked on the door to the cramped little chamber she used at the rooming house. She picked up her one set of spare clothes and used them to hide what she was doing before she went to open the door. The rooming house was a hotbed of revolutionary sentiment, but not everyone was to be trusted. Even people who did support the revolution might not need to know what she was doing. Living in a village and especially in a camp had taught her the importance of keeping secrets.

But waiting outside in the hall stood Nieh Ho-T'ing. She didn't know whether he knew the secrets of everyone in the rooming house, but he did know all of hers-all, at least, that had anything to do with the struggle against the little scaly devils. She stood aside. "Come in, superior sir," she said, the last two words in the scaly devils' language. No harm in reminding him of the many ways she could be useful to the people's cause.

Nieh knew next to nothing of the little devils' tongue, but he did recognize that phrase. It made him smile. "Thank you," he said, walking past her into the little room. His own was no finer; anyone who could believe he had become a revolutionary for personal gain was a fool. He nodded approvingly when he noticed trousers and tunic covering up her writing. "You do well to keep that hidden from prying eyes."

"I do not want to let people know what I am doing," she answered. As she shut the door behind him, she laughed a little before going on. "I think I would leave it open if you were Hsia Shou-Tao."

"Oh? Why is that?" Nieh Ho-T'ing asked, a little more sharply than her comment deserved.

"You know why perfectly well, or you should," Liu Han said, irritated at his obtuseness. Men! Men! she thought. "All he wants to do is see my body"-a euphemism for doing other things with it than merely seeing it. she thought. "All he wants to do is see my body"-a euphemism for doing other things with it than merely seeing it.

Nieh said, "That is not all Hsia Shou-Tao wants. He is a committed people's revolutionary, and has risked much to free the workers and peasants from the oppression first of the upper cla.s.ses and then of the scaly devils." He coughed. "He is also fond of women, perhaps too fond. I have spoken to him about this."

"Have you?" Liu Han said, pleased. That was more action than she'd expected. "Men usually look the other way when their comrades take advantage of women."

"Er-yes." Nieh paced around the chamber, which did not have a lot of room for pacing. Liu Han took her spare clothes off the table. Nieh not only knew what she was doing, he had started her on the project He came over and examined what she'd done. "You form your characters more fluidly than you did when you began," he said. "You may not have the smooth strokes of a calligrapher, but anyone who read this would think you had been writing for years."

"I have worked hard," Liu Han said, a truth that applied to her entire life.

"Your labor is rewarded," he told her.

She didn't think he had come to her room for no other reason than to compliment her on her handwriting. Usually, though, when he had something to say, he came out and said it. He would have called anything else bourgeois shilly-shallying... most of the time. What, then, was he keeping to himself?

Liu Han started to laugh. The sound made Nieh jump. She laughed harder. "What do you find funny?" he asked, his voice brittle.

"You," she said, for a moment seeing only the man and not the officer of the People's Liberation Army. "When I complained about Hsia Shou-Tao, that left you in a complicated place, didn't it?"

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. But he knew, he knew. She could tell by the way he paced again, harder than ever, and by the way he would not look at her.

She almost did not answer him, not directly. A proper Chinese woman was quiet, submissive, and, if she ever thought about desire between woman and man, did not openly say so. But Liu Han had been through too much to care about propriety-and, in any case, the Communists talked a great deal about equality of all sorts, including that between the s.e.xes. Let's see if they mean what they say, Let's see if they mean what they say, she thought. she thought.

"I'm talking about you-and about me," she answered. "Or didn't you come up here now to see if you could get down on the mattress with me?"

Nieh Ho-T'ing stared at her. She laughed again. For all he preached, for all the Communists preached, down deep he was still a man and a Chinese. She'd expected nothing different, and so was not disappointed.

But, unlike most Chinese men, he did have some idea that his prejudices were just prejudices, not laws of nature. The struggle on his face was a visible working out of-what did he call it?-the dialectic, that's what the word was. The thesis was his old, traditional, not truly questioned belief, the ant.i.thesis his Communist ideology, and the synthesis-she watched to see what the synthesis would be.

"What if I did?" he said at last, sounding much less stern than he had moments before.

What if he did? Now she had to think about that. She hadn't lain with anyone since Bobby Fiore-and Nieh, in a way, had been responsible for Bobby Fiore's death. But it wasn't as if he'd murdered him, only that he'd put him in harm's way, as an officer had a right to do with a soldier he commanded. On the scales, that balanced.

What about the rest? If she let him bed her, she might gain influence over him that way. But if they quarreled afterwards, she would lose not only that influence but also what she'd gained through her own good sense. She'd won solid respect for that; the project for which she was writing her endless slips had been her own idea, after all. There, too, the scales balanced.

Which left her one very basic question: did she want him? He was not a bad-looking man; he had strength and self-confidence aplenty. What did that add up to? Not enough Not enough she decided with more than a twinge of regret. she decided with more than a twinge of regret.

"If I let a man take me to the mattress now," she said, "it will be because I want him, not because he wants me. That is not enough. Never again will that be enough for me to lie with anyone." She shuddered, remembering the time with Yi Min, the village apothecary, after the little scaly devils captured them both-and even worse times with men whose names she never knew, up in the little devils' airplane that never came down. Bobby Fiore had won her heart there simply by being something less than brutal. She never wanted to sink so low again.