“Your rockets called Katyushas were among the weapons employed against the desalination plants,” Queek said.

“Katyushas have been in production for more than twenty years,” Molotov said blandly. “Many were captured by the fascists in their invasion of the Soviet Union, and others by the Race. These weapons are also widely imitated.”

“You always have excuses and denials,” Queek said. “Do you wonder that the Race has trouble taking them seriously?”

“What I have is a complaint, and the Race had better take it seriously,” Molotov said-he was indeed intent on making sure Queek went away unhappy.

“We shall treat it with the seriousness it deserves, whatever that proves to be,” the Lizard answered. “I do find it intriguing that this not-empire, the cause of so many complaints, is now issuing one. Say on. I hope you intend no frivolity.”

“None whatsoever,” said Molotov, to whom frivolity was as alien as satyriasis. The ironic style Queek affected was also the one he preferred; he flattered himself that he was better at it than the Lizard. He went on, “My complaint-the Soviet Union’s complaint-is that your alien domestic animals have begun straying from the border regions of the territory you occupy into land unquestionably under the jurisdiction of the Soviet Union. I demand that the Race do everything in its power to curb these incursions, and that you pay compensation for damage to our crops and livestock.”

“Animals, unfortunately, know nothing of political borders. They go where they can find food,” Queek said. “We shall have no complaints if you drive them back over the frontier. We shall also have no complaints if you slay them when you find them on your territory. Compensation for damages does not strike me as unreasonable, provided your claims are not exorbitant.”

It was a softer answer than Molotov had expected, and so one that left him disappointed. He said, “Some of your beasts are devouring the crops that will yield the bread that feeds the Soviet people. Others kill chickens and ducks, and have even been known to kill cats and dogs as well.”

The translation took a little while; Molotov guessed that the interpreter had to explain to the Lizard what sort of animals he was talking about. Finally, Queek said, “You would be referring to befflem, I suppose, in the matter of your livestock, befflem and possibly tsiongyu.”

Molotov cared very little about the Race’s names for its annoying creatures. He was about to say as much, but checked himself. Queek would surely respond that the names of proper Earthly animals did not matter to him, either. Forestalling an opponent could be as important as counterattacking after a sally. The Soviet leader contented himself with observing, “Whatever else these creatures may be, they are pests, and they will be exterminated from Soviet soil.”

“I wish you good fortune in your efforts along those lines,” Queek said: yes, he did have a sardonic turn of phrase. “The Race has been making similar efforts since long before the establishment of the Empire. Some few have been partially successful. Most, however, were undoubted failures.”

Molotov studied the Lizard. He reluctantly concluded Queek, despite the sarcasm, was not joking. He thought about feral cats that lived off pigeons and mice and squirrels and such, and about packs of wild dogs that scavenged in the cities and sometimes killed cattle and sheep out in the countryside. “You have released a new plague on us, you are telling me,” he said.

Queek shrugged after that was translated. “You have your domestic animals, and we have ours. They have accompanied us as the Empire has grown. We see no reason why Tosev 3 should be different from any other world in this regard.”

“You have not conquered us, as you conquered these other worlds,” Molotov said. “Your animals have no business on our soil.”

“I repeat: we are willing to discuss reasonable compensation,” the ambassador from the Race said. “But I also repeat that you are unreasonable if you expect us to keep perfect control over all our animals at all times. I am certain your own not-empire is unable to do this, so why do you assume we can?”

For that, Molotov found no good answer. He shifted his ground: “It appears to me that you are seeking to win through environmental change what you could not win at the battlefield or at the negotiating table.”

“Our intention is to colonize this world. We have never said otherwise,” Queek replied. “We are not at war with the Soviet Union or with any other independent Tosevite not-empire, but we do hope and expect to bring all of Tosev 3 into the Empire in the fullness of time.”

“That shall not happen,” Molotov declared.

“Perhaps you speak truth,” the Lizard told him. “I do not deny the possibility. But, as I said at a previous meeting, this is not necessarily to your advantage. If you become a threat to the Empire as a whole, rather than merely to peace and good order here on Tosev 3, we shall be as ruthless as circumstances require. Do not doubt that I mean this with complete sincerity.”

However much Molotov wanted to, he didn’t doubt that. “We must also be able to protect ourselves from you,” he warned. “You want us to abandon technical progress. As I have said before, that is impossible.” The USSR didn’t just have to protect itself from the Race, either. The Reich and the USA remained potential enemies. So did Japan, in a more limited way. Molotov had been a boy during the Russo-Japanese War, but he still remembered his country’s humiliation. One day, the Soviet Union would settle scores, against all its neighbors, human and otherwise.

Queek said, “It appears, then, that we are on a collision course. In that case, squabbles over domestic animals suddenly become less important, would you not agree?”

Molotov shrugged. “Since we are not in combat, my view is that we had best behave as if we were at peace.”

“Ah,” the Lizard said. “Yes, that is a sensible attitude, I must admit. I would not have expected it of you.” The Polish interpreter’s eyes gleamed as he turned that into Russian.

“Life is full of surprises,” Molotov said. “Have we anything further to discuss?”

“I think not,” Queek replied. “I have delivered the statement required of me by my superiors, I have heard your complaint and suggested a possible resolution, and I have listened to your bluster pertaining to your not-empire’s technical prowess. Nothing more remains that I can see.”

“Bluster travels on both sides of the street,” Molotov said icily, and rose from his desk. “This meeting is at an end. The guards will escort you back to your limousine. Good day.” He didn’t say good riddance, but his manner suggested it.

After the Lizards’ ambassador and his interpreter had left, Molotov went into the antechamber to one side of the office. There he changed all his clothes, down to socks and underwear. If Queek or his human stooge had smuggled electronic eavesdropping devices into the office, they would go no farther than the antechamber. Molotov wondered if the Race knew he entertained human visitors in another office. He wouldn’t have been surprised. He didn’t mind offending the Lizards-or anyone else-but didn’t care to do so inadvertently.

Once back in clothes sure to be uncontaminated, Molotov returned to the regular office. No sooner had he got there than the telephone rang. He picked it up. “Marshal Zhukov on the line,” his secretary said.

Molotov’s expression did not change, but he grimaced inside. Zhukov knew altogether too much about his comings and goings. No doubt the marshal had a spy among Molotov’s aides. “Put him through,” Molotov said, suppressing a sigh, and then, “Good day, Georgi Konstantinovich. And how are you?”

“Fine, thank you, Comrade General Secretary,” Zhukov replied, outwardly deferential. But, a blunt soldier, he had little patience with small talk. “What did the Lizard want?”