“And I greet you, Shiplord.”

This time, the telephone wire brought Straha the crisp tones of a male of the Race. “Hello, Ristin,” he said, grandly still. “What can I do for you?”

Ristin had been one of the first infantrymales captured by the Americans. These days, he might almost have been a Big Ugly himself, so completely had he taken on Tosevite ways. He said, “No, Shiplord, it is what I can do for you.”

“Ah? And what is that?” Straha asked. He did not altogether like or particularly trust Ristin. While he himself lived among the Big Uglies, he had not abandoned the ways of the Race: he still kept his body paint perfect, for instance, and often startled males and females who saw him without realizing for a moment which shiplord he was. Ristin, by contrast, wore and wore proudly the red, white, and blue prisoner-of-war body paint the Big Uglies had given him in Hot Springs, Arkansas. His housemate Ullhass was the same way. Straha found them in large measure unfathomable.

But then Ristin said, “Shiplord, I can get you several prime ssefenji cutlets. Are you interested?”

“I am. I cannot deny it, and I thank you,” Straha said. “I had heard that the colonization fleet was beginning to bring down domestic animals, but I did not know the meat was available yet. Ssefenji!” He let out a soft exclamation redolent of longing. “I have not tasted ssefenji since before we left Home.”

“Neither had I,” Ristin answered. “It is as good-well, very nearly as good-as I remembered, too. I have some in the freezer. I will bring it to you today or perhaps tomorrow. May you eat it with enjoyment. And may you eat it with Greek olives-they go with it very well.”

“I shall do that. I have some in the house,” Straha said.

“I thought you would,” Ristin said.

Straha made the affirmative hand gesture, though the other male couldn’t see that, not over a primitive, screenless Tosevite telephone. Males-and females-of the Race found a lot of the food Big Uglies ate on the bland side. Ham, salted nuts, and Greek olives were welcome exceptions. Straha said, “So there are herds of ssefenji roaming Tosev 3 now, eh? And azwaca and zisuili, too, I should not wonder.”

“I believe so, Shiplord, though I have not been able to get any of their flesh yet,” Ristin answered.

“Perhaps I can manage that,” Straha said. His connections within the American army and the American government ought to be able to arrange it. “If I can do it, of course I shall make you a return gift.”

“You are gracious, Shiplord,” Ristin said, for all the world as if Straha were still his superior.

“Ssefenji,” Straha said dreamily. The ginger was wearing off now, but he didn’t feel so depressed as he would have otherwise. “Azwaca. Zisuili. Good eating.” The herb still sped his wits to some degree, for he went on, “And not only good eating, but also a sign that we are beginning to make this planet more Homelike. High time we had our own beasts here.”

“Truth. And my tongue quivers at the thought of fried azwaca.” Ristin sounded dreamy, too.

In musing tones, Straha said, “I wonder how our animals and the local ecology will interact with each other. That is always the question in introducing new life-forms to a world. The results of the competition should be interesting.”

“Our beasts and plants prevailed on Rabotev 2 and Halless 1,” Ristin said. “No doubt it will be the same here.”

“You are likely to be right.” Perhaps it was the onset of after-tasting depression that made Straha add, “But this is Tosev 3. You never can tell.”

Jonathan Yeager’s alarm clock woke him at twenty minutes before six. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. He hated getting up so early, but he had an eight o’clock class in the language of the Race at UCLA and chores to do before then. With a grunt, he got out of bed, turned on the ceiling light, and put on a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans and an even tighter-fitting flesh-colored T-shirt adorned with a fleetlord’s body paint.

He’d showered just before he went to bed, so he ran a hand over his scalp and his chin. His face needed shaving; his scalp didn’t. That saved him a little time in the bathroom.

He went out to the kitchen as quietly as he could. His parents-lucky them! — were still asleep. He poured himself a big glass of milk and cut a slab off the coffee cake in the refrigerator. Inhaling breakfast was a matter of moments. He ate like a shark and never gained any weight. Over the years, the things his father said about that had grown increasingly rude.

That thought made Jonathan laugh. His old man was an old man, all right, even if he did know a hell of a lot about the Lizards. Jonathan washed his glass, his plate, and the silverware he’d used and set everything in the dish drainer by the sink. The hard time his mom would have given him if he’d left the stuff for her made that more trouble than it was worth.

Then he muttered to himself. He was going to have to get another knife dirty. He got a cooked ham out of the refrigerator, cut off a couple of thick slices, and cut them into inch-wide strips. He put those strips on a paper towel, took a pair of leather gloves from a drawer and put them on, and went down the hall to the room in which the baby Lizards lived.

Before he opened the door to that room, he shut the door at the end of the hall. Every so often, the Lizards didn’t feel like eating-instead, they would run past him and try to get away. They were much easier to catch in the hall than when they got into places where they could skitter under or behind furniture.

Jonathan sighed. “Mom and Dad never had to do this when I was little,” he muttered as he opened the door to the Lizards’ room and flipped on the light. Now, closing the door behind him, he spoke aloud: “Come on, Mickey. Wake up, Donald. Rise and shine.”

Both baby Lizards were holed up in a corner, behind a chair that had been ragged before they hatched and that their sharp little claws had torn up further. They often slept back there; it wasn’t quite a hole in the ground or a cave, but it came pretty close.

They came out at the light and the sound of Jonathan’s voice. Donald was a bit bigger and a bit more rambunctious than Mickey; he (if he was a he; the Yeagers didn’t know for sure) was also a little darker. He and his brother-sister? — both made excited hissing and popping noises when they saw the ham strips Jonathan was carrying.

He squatted down. The Lizards were a good deal bigger than they had been when they hatched, but their heads didn’t come anywhere close to his knee. He held out a piece of ham. Donald ran up, grabbed it out of his hand, and started gulping it down.

Mickey got the next one, Donald the one after that. Jonathan talked to them while he fed them. They were pretty much used to him and to his mother and father by now, and associated humans with the gravy train. Feeding them, these days, was a lot like feeding a dog or a cat. Jonathan wore the gloves more because the Lizards got excited when they ate than because they were trying to nip him.

After awhile, Donald finished a piece in nothing flat and tried to get the next one even though it was Mickey’s turn. “No!” Jonathan said in English, and wouldn’t let him have it. Jonathan wanted to use the language of the Race-the noises the baby Lizards made clearly showed where its sounds came from-but his father would have pitched a fit. The idea here was to make the Lizards as nearly human as possible, not that they’d be speaking any language themselves for quite a while.

Seeing Mickey get the strip of ham he’d wanted, Donald went over and bit his sibling on the tailstump. They started fighting like a couple of puppies or kittens. That was another reason Jonathan wore leather gloves: to break up squabbles without getting hurt in the process.

“No, no!” he said over and over as he separated them. Like puppies or kittens or small children, they didn’t hold grudges: they wouldn’t start up again after he left the room. Sooner or later, with luck, they’d learn that “No, no!” meant they were supposed to stop what they were doing. Then he wouldn’t need the gloves any more. That wasn’t close to happening yet, though.