“Now see here, my friends,” Pierre Dutourd said, making what sounded to Monique like a dangerously unwarranted assumption. “You are making a mistake. If you will but wait a moment-”

“Shut up, you fat tub of goo,” the leader of the purification squad said coldly. “I tell you this only once. After that…” Now the muzzle of the pistol pointed right at the bridge of Pierre’s nose. Monique’s brother sat silent as a stone. “Good,” the other man said. “Come along with me, whore.”

“I’m not a whore,” Monique insisted, trying to fight down a nasty stab of fear. How could she make these hard-eyed purifiers understand? How could she make them believe?

“You are to be interrogated,” their leader said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “After the interrogation, your punishment will be set.” He sounded as if there weren’t the slightest doubt she would be punished. In his mind, there probably wasn’t.

“The Nazis interrogated me, too, at the Palais de Justice,” Monique said. “I hope you will be gentler than they were.” Terror at the thought of another such interrogation was what had made her let Dieter Kuhn do what he wanted with her.

But the leader of the purification squad said, “We shall do everything that is necessary.” The fire of righteousness burned in his eyes, as it had burned in the eyes of the Germans who’d questioned and tormented her.

She’d had no choice with the Germans. She had no choice now. With such dignity as she could muster, she said, “Be it noted that I come with you under protest.”

“Be it noted that no one cares,” the zealot answered. “Get moving.” Under the cover of his comrades’ automatics, Monique left the tent and stepped out into the warm night. Somewhere close by, a cricket chirped. You can afford to make noise, Monique thought bitterly. No one is going to interrogate you. The purification squad hustled her through the camp toward a waiting motorcar.

As she had on her previous tour of duty in Marseille, Felless found that she liked the place better than Nuremberg. Since she’d hated Nuremberg with a deep and abiding loathing, that wasn’t saying much, but it was something. The weather here, though not up to the standards of Home or even of the new town in the Arabian Peninsula where she’d been a refugee, was certainly an improvement on Nuremberg’s. At this season of the year, it was more than tolerable.

She soon discovered she liked Marseille better now than she had on her first visit, too, even though the Race’s explosive-metal bomb had torn out its liver. Then the Deutsche had been in charge of the city, and their arrogance, their automatic assumption that they were not just equal but superior to the Race, had gone a long way toward making her despise them and the place both.

The Francais, now, the Francais were easier to deal with. Technically, this subregion called France still wasn’t part of the territory the Race ruled from Cairo. It functioned as an independent not-empire. But the Francais Big Uglies listened to what the Race had to say to them. The alternative was listening to the Deutsche, and the Francais had done that for too many years to want to do it any more.

Felless did wish Ambassador Veffani wouldn’t keep turning an eye turret her way, but she couldn’t do anything about that. “I greet you, superior sir,” she said, polite as always when he telephoned.

“And I greet you, Senior Researcher,” Veffani said, sounding more friendly than he usually did. “I seek your opinion in an area that falls within your field of professional expertise.”

“Go ahead, superior sir.” Felless vastly preferred a technical question to his hectoring her over her ginger habit, the reason he usually called.

“I shall,” he said. “Here is my question: do you believe that, by leaving Tosevite not-empires formally independent but in fact dependent on the Race, we can lay the foundations for fully incorporating them into the Empire?”

It was an interesting question. Felless had no doubt she was far from the only one contemplating it. At last, she said, “On the two other planets the Race conquered, half measures were unnecessary. Here, they may well be expedient. We have the chance to experiment, both with France and with the Reich.”

“Ruling Big Uglies should not be a matter for experiment.” Veffani laughed a wry laugh. “Too often, though, it is.”

“You would know better than I, superior sir.” Felless didn’t like flattering him, especially not in view of all the grief he’d caused her, but his question might prove important for the Race, and so she was willing to put aside her own feelings. And it wasn’t as if she were speaking an untruth; as a male from the conquest fleet, Veffani did have more experience with Tosevites than she. She went on, “Perhaps such an approach could aid in the ultimate assimilation of Tosev 3.”

“Perhaps it could,” Veffani said. “Perhaps we should find out. If you can draft a memorandum outlining your views, I will forward it to Cairo with a recommendation for serious consideration-and with your name noted, of course.”

“I thank you, superior sir,” Felless said. “It shall be done.”

“Excellent,” Veffani answered. “I have long known you are capable of excellent work. I am glad to see you realizing your potential. Good-bye.” His image vanished from her monitor.

He hadn’t even taken her to task for her ginger habit, not directly. Maybe he thought she’d given up tasting. If so, he was wrong. She still used the Tosevite herb whenever she got the chance. But she did try to be careful about giving her pheromones a chance to subside before appearing in public; she didn’t want to lay yet another clutch of eggs. She’d mated once since coming to France, but, to her relief, hadn’t become gravid as a result.

She’d got involved in the memorandum when the speaker by the door hissed for attention. Felless hissed, too, in annoyance. “Who is it?” she asked.

“I: Business Administrator Keffesh,” came the reply. “I would like to ask your assistance on a matter of some delicacy.”

Now what is that supposed to mean? Felless wondered irritably. She realized she’d have to find out. She could open the door without fear of embarrassment; she hadn’t tasted in several days. With a sigh, she rose from her desk and poked a fingerclaw into the door’s control panel. As it slid open, she said, “I greet you, Business Administrator.”

“And I greet you, superior female.” Keffesh assumed the posture of respect. That was polite, but not altogether necessary, not with his rank close to hers. It likely meant he wanted something from her, and so wanted her in a good mood. Well, he’d already come out and said he was after something.

“What is this delicate matter?” Felless asked.

Keffesh approached it obliquely. “Do I correctly understand that, in a psychological experiment before this latest round of fighting with the Deutsche, you awarded a Tosevite female named Monique Dutourd a large sum of money?”

“Before I answer, let me consult my records.” Felless did, then made the affirmative gesture. “Yes, that appears to be correct. Is it germane?”

“It is, superior female,” Keffesh answered. “You see, Monique Dutourd has the same mother and father as Pierre Dutourd, a Big Ugly with whom I have done a substantial amount of business. You surely know how, among the Tosevites, these connections count for a good deal.”

“Indeed I do.” Felless made the affirmative gesture again. “You do well to note their importance, I might add. But I do not quite see…”

“Let me explain,” Keffesh said. “Monique Dutourd is at the moment in a certain amount of difficulty with the Francais authorities, for she is accused of having had a sexual relationship with a Deutsch officer while the Deutsche occupied this subregion. The Francais, as you must also know, are seeking to destroy memories of the Deutsch occupation and to punish those who aided and comforted the occupiers.”

“Yes, I know that, too,” Felless said. “The Race encourages it, as it makes the Francais more likely to be dependent on us.”

“In principle, I approve of this,” Keffesh said. “In practice, Monique Dutourd’s difficulties make it harder for Pierre Dutourd to carry on his business.”

“That is unfortunate, perhaps, but…” Felless shrugged. “Why should it matter to me, or to the Race as a whole?” Before Keffesh could answer, she swung both eye turrets toward him. “Wait. What sort of business is this Big Ugly in?”

Now Keffesh hesitated. “Superior female, I told you this was a matter of some delicacy. I hope I may rely on your discretion.” He brought his hand up near his mouth and shot out his tongue, as if he were tasting ginger.

Had Felless not been in the habit of tasting, too, she probably wouldn’t have known what that meant. As things were, she said, “I believe I understand.”

“Ahh.” Relief filled Keffesh’s hiss. “I hoped you would. I had been given to understand that you would.” By that he no doubt meant he’d heard of Felless’ ginger-induced disgrace. He went on, “If you could arrange leniency from the Francais, superior female, you would not find me ungrateful. You would not find Pierre Dutourd ungrateful, either.”

What exactly was he offering? All the ginger she could taste? Something like that, surely. Her tailstump quivered in excitement. She tried to make it hold still. Doing her best to sound casual, she said, “I make no promises-who can make promises where Big Uglies are involved? — but I will see what I can do.”

“I thank you, superior female.” Keffesh went into the posture of respect again. “I could ask for nothing more. And now I shall not disturb you any further.” He left the chamber.

Felless returned to the memorandum. First things first, she told herself. But she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind kept going back to ginger.

At last, sighing, she saved the memorandum and started trying to telephone the Francais authorities. That didn’t prove easy; the links between the Race’s phone system and that of France were as yet tenuous. At last, though, she reached an official with the formidable title of Minister of Purification. “Do you speak the language of the Race?” she asked, wondering where she could find an interpreter if he didn’t.

But Joseph Darnand did, after a fashion. “I speak it but a little bit,” he replied, his accent thick but comprehensible. “Speak you slowly, if it please you. What is it that you want?”

“I want you to release a certain prisoner here in Marseille, a female named Monique Dutourd,” Felless told him.