“I am more partial to zisuili myself, but the taste of every one of the beasts is a reminder of Home,” Kirel said.

“Truth. But do you know what?” Atvar asked. He waited for Kirel to make the negative hand gesture, then continued, “I have already begun receiving complaints from Tosevite agriculturalists and pastoralists to the effect that our domestic animals graze so thoroughly, no fodder is left for any of theirs.”

“I had not heard of such complaints, but they do not surprise me,” Kirel said. “Tosevite grazers have evolved in an environment of relative abundance. Because moisture is more widespread here than back on Home, so is vegetation. Tosevite animals can afford to leave some behind and still flourish. Our own beasts, by the nature of the terrain to which they are adapted, have to be more efficient.”

“Over the course of time, it will be interesting to see what they do to the ecosystems in which they find themselves,” Atvar said. “They may well make large stretches of this world resemble Home more closely than is now the case.”

“Do we have analysts examining the issue?” Kirel asked.

“I do not,” Atvar answered. “Reffet should: this is, after all, more properly an issue involving the colonization of this planet than its conquest. But what Reffet should be doing and what he is doing are too often not one and the same.” He scribbled a note to himself. “I shall send an inquiry.”

“He will resent it,” Kirel said.

“He resents everything I do and everything I do not do,” the fleetlord said scornfully. “Let him resent this, too. But if Tosevite ecosystems become more Homelike, that will aid in assimilating this world into the Empire, will it not? I can justify the query on those grounds.”

“No doubt you can, Exalted Fleetlord. Fleetlord Reffet will still resent it.” Kirel had long since made plain that his opinion of the head of the colonization fleet was not high. That had not failed to endear him to the head of the conquest fleet. He added, “Since you are rationalizing it as a conquest issue, perhaps our experts should also examine it.”

“Perhaps they should.” Atvar sighed. “We are stretched very thin. We have been stretched very thin-thinner than anyone ever imagined we would be-since we came to Tosev 3 and discovered the inadequacies of the data our probe sent us. Well, perhaps we can stretch a little thinner yet.”

“We have said that a good many times, and we have always succeeded in stretching up till now,” Kirel said. “We should be able to stretch once more.”

“So we should,” Atvar said. “I keep worrying that we will eventually snap and break, but it has not happened yet. Why it has not happened yet, I cannot imagine, given what this world is, but it has not.”

Before Kirel could answer, Atvar’s telephone hissed for attention. When he activated the screen link, his adjutant stared out at him. “What is it, Pshing?” he asked suspiciously. Pshing, being one of his principal links to Tosev 3, was also one of his principal sources of bad news.

“Exalted Fleetlord-” the adjutant began, and then broke off.

Atvar’s heart sank. This was going to be one of those times. Like an itch, the certainty burrowed under his scales. “You had better tell me,” he said heavily.

“It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord,” Pshing said. Yes, he was gathering himself. Yes, that meant he needed to gather himself. After a deep pause, he went on, “Exalted Fleetlord, there has been an attack on the desalination plants supplying fresh water to the new towns in this region.”

A map appeared on the screen beside his face. It showed the eastern coast of the peninsula the Big Uglies called Arabia that depended from the main continental mass. “Tell me more,” Atvar said. “How serious is this attack? Is it the work of the local Tosevites springing from their superstitious fanaticism, or are the independent not-empires using them as a cloak for their own larger designs against us?”

“Those two need not be inseparable,” Kirel pointed out.

Atvar made the hand gesture of agreement, but then waved the shiplord to silence; he wanted to hear what Pshing had to say. “One of the plants is destroyed, another badly damaged,” the adjutant reported. Red dots appeared on the map to show the affected desalination plants; the others remained amber. “Our defense forces have slain a large number of Tosevites, all of whom appear to be native to the vicinity. Whether they were inspired or aided by other groups of Big Uglies as yet remains to be determined.”

“They were surely aided in one way or another,” Atvar said. “They do not produce the weapons they use against us.”

“Truth,” Kirel said. “But whether the Deutsche or the Americans or the Russkis furnished weapons for this particular attack is another matter.”

“Indeed it is.” Atvar’s voice was grim. “Adjutant, were there, for example, rockets fired at these installations?”

“There do appear to have been some, yes, Exalted Fleetlord,” Pshing replied, “but only those of the common and primitive type manufactured in the SSSR and known as Katyushas.” He had as much trouble with the Tosevite word as Big Uglies did with the language of the Race.

“Those things.” Kirel spoke in disgust. “They are as common as sand, and are easy to carry on the backs of beasts. Even if they were supplied especially for this assault, the independent not-empires will be able to deny it and still seem plausible.”

“They have done that too often,” Atvar said. “We shall have to seek ways to punish them nevertheless.” He swung an eye turret back toward Pshing. “One plant destroyed, you said, and one damaged? How severe is the impact on the new towns in the area?”

“Production loss is about fifteen percent, Exalted Fleetlord,” Pshing replied. “The damaged plant will return to full operation in about forty days, as a preliminary estimate. That will reduce losses to about ten percent. Rebuilding the wrecked plant will take three times as long-assuming no more attacks from Khomeini’s fanatics.”

“Ah-you did not mention that maniac before,” Atvar said. “So these Big Uglies profess his variant of the local superstition?”

“They do,” Pshing said. “Those captured proudly proclaim it during interrogation.”

“We would be better off if he were dead,” Kirel said. “We have not been able to eliminate him, and rewards have failed to turn any Big Uglies against him.” Now he sighed. “The Tosevites will betray us whenever they see the chance. It seems most unfair.”

“So it does.” Atvar knew he sounded unhappy, but couldn’t help it. “I shall increase the size of the reward-again.”

With a long, resigned sigh, Monique Dutourd sat up in bed. She reached for the pack of Gauloises on the nightstand, lit one, and turned to Dieter Kuhn, who sprawled beside her. “There,” she said. “Are you happy?”

He rolled over and grinned at her, a large; sated male grin of the sort she found particularly revolting. “Now that you mention it, yes,” he answered. “Give me a smoke, will you?”

She handed him the pack and the book of matches. What she wanted to do after that was go into the bathroom and soak in the tub for an hour, or perhaps for a week: long enough to get the feel of him off her body. If he’d cared what she wanted, though, he wouldn’t have made her go to bed with him in the first place.

After a long, deep drag on the cigarette, he asked, “And how was it for you?”

Monique shrugged. It made her bare breasts bounce a little. His eyes went to them. She’d been sure they would draw his notice, and felt vindicated to find herself right. Now-how to answer the question? “Well,” she said, “it was, I suppose, better than being hauled off to the Palais de Justice and tormented, if that’s what you mean.”

“Your praise overwhelms me,” he said. He didn’t sound too angry. Why should he have? He’d got it in, after all. He’d had a fine time. And if she hadn’t-too bad.