His upper stage shuddered as the missiles left their tubes with puffs of compressed gas. When they were far enough from Hans-Ulrich Bus, their motors came on. The radars they carried guided them straight toward the Lizards’ starship, less than fifty kilometers away.

Drucker cursed horribly a moment later, for the Lizards aboard the starship weren’t asleep after all. Countermissiles leaped away no more than a heartbeat after he launched his. One of his blew up almost at once. The other, though-the other bored in on its target. “Come on,” Drucker whispered. “Come on!” The missiles, had proximity fuses set to detonate them a hundred meters from a ship’s skin. Would that one get through? All the countermissiles had missed it. If the Lizards didn’t do something nasty…

They did. Something sparkled along the starship’s centerline: a close-in weapon system, nothing more dramatic than a computerized heavy machine-gun battery-and the missile exploded in a fireball made up not of bursting atoms but of bursting fuel tanks. Over. It was all over. Drucker swung Hans-Ulrich’s Bus by the attitude jets so he could face the oncoming Lizard spacecraft. Without hope and without fear, he readied himself for his last fight.

“Deutsch upper stage!” That was a Lizard, speaking the language of the Race. “Surrender, Deutsch upper stage. You have no more missiles. You can do no more significant harm. Your not-empire is in ruins. What can you gain by further senseless sacrifice?”

That was a good question. The longer Drucker thought about it, the better it looked. He swung his thumb from the machine-gun trigger to the radio switch. “Male of the Race, I have no good answer for you,” he said wearily. “You have me. I do not know what you will do with me. At the moment, I do not much care what you will do with me. Whatever it is, you have me. I surrender.”

“What can I do for you today, Shiplord?” Straha’s driver asked.

“I cannot think of anything,” Straha answered. “If I need anything, you may be certain that I shall not be shy in letting you know.”

His driver bent into the posture of respect. It was half true subordination, half mockery. The Tosevite had at least as much power in their relationship as did Straha himself. “I have no doubt that you will. In the meantime, if it suits you, I will do some work on your motorcar.”

“Go ahead,” Straha told him. “You could just as easily take it to someone specializing in repairs, you know. Funds would appear to be adequate for any necessary expenditures.” Considering that the government of the not-empire of the United States paid for everything connected with Straha’s upkeep, funds were bound to be adequate.

But the driver said, “I enjoy working on machinery. I would rather do it myself. That way, I am sure it is done right.”

“Whatever pleases you,” Straha replied. Now that he thought about it, he shouldn’t even have tried to discourage the Big Ugly. With him out on the street tinkering with balky Tosevite machinery, Straha could come closer to living a normal, or at least an unspied-upon, life.

When Straha looked out the kitchen window a little later, he saw his driver bent over the engine compartment of the motorcar, happily repairing something or other. The ex-shiplord shrugged. He’d also known males and females of the Race who enjoyed messing about with machines. He had never understood the excitement himself-but then, most Big Uglies saw his gardening as a waste of time.

Straha hurried to his study and turned on the computer that connected him to the Race’s computer network. Since his connection was highly unofficial-even more so than Sam Yeager’s-he didn’t get very many electronic messages, but a synthesized voice announced that he had one today. It was, he noted without surprise, from Yeager, under his pseudonym of Maargyees.

I greet you, Shiplord, the Tosevite had written. I wonder if we could possibly meet without your driver ‘s knowing about it.

Perhaps, Straha replied. It may not be easy. Are you sure it is necessary? He wondered what the Tosevite had in mind. Something to do with one of the places into which Yeager had pushed his unwelcome snout, unless Straha missed his guess.

He also wondered if he would get an answer right away. The Tosevite had sent the message much earlier in the morning. But he stayed by the computer for a little while, on the off chance that Yeager was sitting in front of his, as he sometimes did.

And, sure enough, a reply came back quite quickly. Yes, I am sure it is necessary, Yeager wrote, and appended the conventional symbol for an emphatic cough. I must trust someone. In that particular mess, I would sooner trust you than any of my Tosevite acquaintances.

I am honored, Straha wrote back. But are you sure you would not be better served by one of your fellow Big Uglies?

I am sure of nothing, Yeager responded. I have done a great deal of thinking, but my way is not plain any more. I do not think my way will ever be plain again.

As you know, my driver clings to me as if he were a parasite under my scales, Straha wrote. I do not know if I can arrange to have him disappear. I also do not know if l should.

Well, you will do as you see fit, Yeager wrote back. If you decide to make the arrangement, let me know. In all fairness, I should tell you that seeing me about this business may be risky for you.

Are you yourself in danger now? Straha asked.

I have been in danger for some time, the Tosevite answered. Had I not been careful-and lucky-I would be dead. That is why I want to see you: if I die suddenly and mysteriously, I want you to avenge me.

That was stark enough. Many ancient classics from the Race’s literature and videos revolved around such themes. Straha hadn’t thought he would find himself caught in the middle of one, though. Something else occurred to him. He wrote, This may involve me in no small amount of danger, then. Is that not a truth?

Yes, Shiplord, Jam afraid that is a truth, and I am sorry for it, Yeager answered. He was honest; Straha had seen as much many times. If you do not wish to do it, I will understand, and I will look for someone else.

Not necessary, Straha wrote at once. Come here at midday tomorrow If you see the motorcar in front of the house, I will not have succeeded in getting my driver to go elsewhere. If it is gone, you are welcome. Actually, you will be welcome in any case, but you might well make the driver suspicious.

I understand. I thank you. It shall be done. Goodbye.

Goodbye, Straha wrote, but Yeager would probably get that message later. The ex-shiplord paused a while in thought. At last, he found an idea that satisfied him. In fact, he quite liked it. Had he been a Big Ugly, he would have used the curious grimace the Tosevites called smiling.

After a while, his driver came inside, greasy to the elbows and with a smile of his own on his face. He was indeed one of those individuals who enjoyed tinkering for the sake of tinkering. Straha asked, “Is everything now operating as it should?”

“Couldn’t be better,” the driver answered in English as he started cleaning himself off. His mind was plainly elsewhere, or he would have stuck to the language of the Race.

“Excellent.” Straha did stay with his own tongue. “I would like you to drive down to the Race’s consulate in the center of the city tomorrow for me, and to bring back a selection of new books and videos. The ones I have are growing stale.”

As he’d expected, that made the driver’s smile disappear. “Oh, very well,” the Big Ugly said at last. “I do not suppose you can go to the consulate yourself, not when you would be seized and spirited away if you tried. But I must tell you that I will also use the visit as an opportunity to brief my own superiors, who are based not far away.”