She looked around as soon as she had her feet on the ground. The turret of the combat vehicle mounted a small cannon and a machine gun. Those bore on the Chinese men with submachine guns and rifles who advanced toward the machine. In their midst were three woebegone little scaly devils. One of the Chinese called, “You are Nieh Ho-T’ing, Liu Han, and Liu Mei?”

“That’s right,” Liu Han said, her agreement mixing with those of the others. She added, “Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter,” the man answered. “What does matter is that you are the people for whom we are exchanging these hostages.” He swung the muzzle of his submachine gun toward the unhappy little devils he and his comrades were guarding.

Negotiations between the men of the People’s Liberation Army-for that was what they had to be-and the little scaly devils who made up the crew of the combat vehicle did not last long. When they were through, the little scaly devils in Chinese hands hurried into the vehicle while Liu Han and her daughter and Nieh hurried away from it. The scaly devils slammed the doors to the troop compartment shut as if they expected the Chinese to start shooting any second.

And the Chinese leader said, “Hurry. We have to get out of here. We can’t be sure the little scaly devils don’t have an ambush laid on.”

Fleeing through the willow branches that kept throwing little leaves in her face, Liu Han said, “Thank you so much for freeing us from that camp.”

“You are experienced revolutionaries,” the People’s Liberation Army man answered. “The movement needs you.”

“We will give it everything we have,” Nieh Ho-T’ing said. “The Kuomintang could not defeat us. The Japanese could not defeat us. And the little scaly devils shall not defeat us, either. The dialectic is on our side.”

The little scaly devils knew nothing of the dialectic. But they, like the Party, took a long view of history. Eventually, history would show which was correct. Liu Han remained convinced the proletarian revolution would triumph, but she was much less certain than she had been that it would happen in her lifetime. But I’m back in the struggle, she thought, and hurried on through the willows.

Not even during the fighting after the conquest fleet landed on Tosev 3 had Gorppet seen such devastation as he found when the small unit he commanded moved into the Greater German Reich.

One of the males in the unit, a trooper named Yarssev, summed up his feelings when he asked, “How did the Big Uglies stay in the war so long when we did this to them? Why were they so stupid?”

“I cannot answer that,” Gorppet said. “All I know is, they fought hard up till the moment they surrendered.”

“Truth, superior sir,” Yarssev agreed. “And now their countryside will glow in the dark for years because of their foolish courage.”

He was exaggerating, but not by any tremendous amount. Every male moving into the Reich wore a radiation-exposure badge on a chain around his neck. Orders were to check the badges twice a day, and the troops followed those orders. Nowhere on four worlds had so many explosive-metal bombs fallen on so small an area in so short a time.

But not every area of the Reich had had a bomb fall on it. In between the zones where nothing was left alive, the Deutsche who had survived the war struggled to get on with their lives, to raise their crops and domestic animals, to care for refugees and demobilized soldiers, to rebuild damage from conventional weapons.

As the occupying males of the Race moved into the Reich, the local Tosevites would pause in what they were doing to stare at them. Some of those Tosevites would have fought against the Race in earlier conflicts. Others, though, females and young, were surely civilians. The quality of the stares was the same in either case, though.

“Nasty creatures, aren’t they, superior sir?” Yarssev said.

“No doubt about it,” Gorppet agreed. “I have seen stares from Big Uglies who hated us before-I have served in Basra and Baghdad. But I have never seen such hate as these Deutsche display.”

“Better they should hate their own not-emperor, who was foolish enough to think he could beat us,” Yarssev said.

“They never hate their own. No one ever hates his own. This is a law through all the Empire, as sure as I hatched out of my eggshell.”

The detachment came to the sea not much later, came to the sea and headed west. Gorppet had seen Tosevite seas before. The one south of Basra was quite tolerably warm. The one off Cape Town was cooler, but of an interesting shade of blue. This one… This one was cold and gray and ugly. It splashed lethargically up onto the mud of the coastline, then rolled back.

“Why would anyone want to live in a country like this?” a male asked. “Chilly and flat and horrible… ”

“Sometimes you live where you have to live, not where you want to live,” Gorppet answered. “Maybe some other Big Uglies chased the Deutsche into this part of the world and would not let them live anywhere better.”

“Maybe, superior sir,” the other male said. “And maybe having to live here is what makes them so mean and tough.”

“That could be,” Gorppet agreed. “Something certainly has.”

He wished he had a taste of ginger. He had plenty-more than plenty-stashed away in South Africa, but it might as well have been on Home for all the good it did him. He’d been very moderate all through the fighting. Males who tasted ginger thought they were stronger and faster and brighter than they really were. If they went into action against coldly pragmatic Big Uglies with the herb coursing through them, they were all too likely to do something foolish and end up dead before they could make amends.

When we stop for the evening, he thought. I’ll taste when we stop for the evening.

They came to the vicinity of Peenemunde as light was failing. They would have gone no farther had it been early morning. Teams of the Race’s engineers had already taken possession of the principal spaceport the Deutsche used. They had also set up warning lines to keep other males from venturing too far into the radioactivity without proper protection. No site in the Reich, Nuremberg probably included, had taken as many bombs as Peenemunde.

“Nothing will grow here for a hundred years,” Yarssev predicted. “And I mean a hundred Tosevite years, twice as long as ours.”

“I suppose not,” Gorppet said. “And yet… wasn’t it here that the Big Ugly who calls himself the Deutsch not-emperor these days was holed up during the fighting?”

“I think so,” Yarssev replied. “Too bad the miserable creature came out alive, if you want to know how I feel.”

“Truth,” Gorppet said, for he agreed with all his liver. But if any Tosevite could emerge alive from the slagging the Race had given Peenemunde, that bespoke some truly formidable engineering prowess. He let out a wry hiss. The Race had seen as much in the fighting in Poland. The weapons the Deutsche used there were alarmingly close to being as good as the ones the Race owned-and the Big Uglies had had a lot more of them. If the Race hadn’t pounded their not-empire too flat to let them keep supporting their army, things might have gone even worse than they had.

As usual, field rations tasted like the mud that lined the southern shore of the local sea. Gorppet fueled himself as he would have put hydrogen into a mechanized combat vehicle. Having fueled himself, he did taste ginger. He was sure he wasn’t the only male in the small group who used the Tosevite herb. Penalties against it had grown harsher since females came to Tosev 3, but that hadn’t stopped many males. Except for making sure his troopers didn’t do anything that would get themselves and their comrades killed in combat, Gorppet didn’t try to keep them from tasting. That would hardly have been fair, not when he had the ginger habit himself.

He poured some of the herb into the palm of his hand. Even before he raised palm to mouth, the heady scent of the ginger was tickling his scent receptors. He never tired of it; it always seemed fresh and new. His tongue shot out almost of its own accord.

“Ahhh,” he murmured as bliss flowed through him. He felt bigger than a Big Ugly, faster than a starship, with more computing power between his hearing diaphragms than all the Race’s electronic network put together. Some small part of him knew the feeling was an illusion, but he didn’t care. This side of mating-maybe not even this side of mating-it was as good a feeling as a male of the Race could have.

While it lasted. Like the pleasure of mating, it didn’t last long enough. And when it faded, the crushing depression that followed was as bad as it had been good. One solution was to have another taste, and then another, and… Gorppet chose the harder road, waiting till the depression faded, too. Over the years, he’d come to take it as part of the experience connected to the herb.

When they set out again the next morning, the road along which they were traveling west came together with another, on which were about their number of Deutsch soldiers coming home from Poland. No one had disarmed the Deutsche: they still carried all their hand weapons, and several of them wore bandoliers of bullets crisscrossed on their chests.

The males in Gorppet’s unit nervously eyed the Big Uglies. The Deutsche did not have the look of defeated troops. On the contrary; they looked as if they were ready to start up the war again then and there.

They might win if they did, too, at least in this small engagement. Gorppet was uneasily aware of it. Before either side could start spraying bullets around, he stepped away from the males he commanded and strode toward the Deutsche. “I do not speak your language,” he called. “Does anyone among you speak the language of the Race?” If none of them did, he was liable to be in a lot of trouble.

But, as he’d hoped, a Deutsch male came out from among the Big Uglies and said, “I speak your language. What do you want?”

“I want my small group and your small group to pass by in peace,” Gorppet answered. “The war is over. Let it stay over.”

“You can say that,” the Tosevite replied. His face was grimy. His wrappings were filthy. He smelled powerfully of the rank odor Big Uglies soon acquired when they did not bathe. He went on, “Yes, winners can say, ‘The war is over.’ For losers, the war is never over. Winners can forget. Losers remember. We have much for which to remember the Race.”

“I have nothing to say to that,” Gorppet said. “I am not a politician. I am not a diplomat. I am only a soldier. As a soldier, I tell you this: if you attack us now, you will be sorry and your not-empire will be sorry.”