I wasn’t sure whether he was asking the Wet One or me, but I wanted to be the one who answered. “With the generous help of you Horch, yes!” I said.
Beert gave me a disapproving look, translated as Shut up, you ‘ve made enough trouble. “It is kind of you to take an interest, Kofeeshtetch,” he said, doing his best to be polite to a grandson of a Greatmother, “but we have urgent business. This Wet One is most uncomfortable in this dry and weightless environment. He should begin his mission without delay.”
The youth shrugged impatiently. “Of course, but first I wish to hear his plans in detail. Speak to me if you can, Wet One.”
The amphibian’s little electric whiskers were twisting about. For a moment I thought the Greatmother’s least grandson was going to get a cattle-prod shock to hurry him along, but courtesy, and prudence, won out. The Wet One began telling his plans in his thick, slobbery voice.
Kofeeshtetch listened with a lot less courtesy, his neck drawn back from the Wet One in repugnance. “I can hardly understand this one,” he remarked to Beert. “He speaks very poorly, as do you. I am disappointed.” He turned to the nearest Christmas tree. “At least display for me what his planet looks like, also”-shooting one arm in my direction-“the planet of this one.”
“We have not yet identified the other organism’s home,” the machine apologized.
“Do so! Meanwhile, the display!”
There was no doubt that Kofeeshtetch was used to having his orders obeyed. They were. Another of the Christmas trees, the one hovering by the transit machine, quickly swung itself to a TV bowl in the wall and made adjustments.
As a picture sprang up in the bowl, the amphibian caught his breath in a sort of loud, abbreviated snore. To me, the picture was just a planet, and not a particularly interesting one. None of its few land masses looked anything like Earth, but it meant something to the amphibian. He croaked, “That is it! I believe that is my true Home Water!”
One of his shocking tendrils was resting on the image, touching a wide bay that looked like any other wide bay to me. It didn’t seem to mean much to Kofeeshtetch, either. As he pulled himself closer, one of those mean-looking fighting machines got in his way, but he shoved it rudely aside. Then he made a sound of disgust. “This is a very tedious object, Wet One,” he told the amphibian. “There is too much water. But if you wish to go there, then do so.”
And he waved to the Christmas tree, who opened the door of the transit machine.
The amphibian crawled in, attachments and all, and the other robot tossed his ammunition boxes after him.
The door closed.
Kofeeshtetch made a gesture of dismissal. “I do not think that Wet One will survive for long,” he remarked, and that was all there was to it.
After a moment Beert sighed. “I would have liked to wish him well on his venture,” he said meditatively. “In any case, thank you for your help, Kofeeshtetch, but now I am quite tired. I think I will go to my chamber and rest before the banquet. Are you coming, Dan?”
I looked at the young Horch. He seemed poutily disappointed in the entertainment, but he hadn’t left.
“You go ahead, Beert,” I said. “I think Kofeeshtetch still has some questions for me, so I’ll stay a bit.”
It took me about thirty seconds to get the kid juiced up again-he was, after all, a kid. All I had to do was to ask him if he would please grant me the favor of telling me how his ancestors had captured this installation. That did it. He was off, and then all I had to do was make the appropriate thrilled noises from time to time.
His story was full of Horch names that I didn’t retain, and matters of who took precedence over whom that I didn’t understand in the first place. Most of it, though, was blow-by-blow descriptions of how his parents’ technicians had managed to insert their fighting forces into the Others’ channel. And how the first wave of Horch fighting machines had been destroyed in a few moments. And how the Horch had sneaked a second wave in through a different transit machine while the defenders were distracted by what was happening at the first one. And—
And on and on. Kofeeshtetch loved the subject. He acted it out, with limbs and neck flying in all directions. It was interesting to me, too, as an insight into how the Horch did their fighting ... but, at that moment, not very. I wanted to get on to my own problem, but I didn’t want to interrupt.
When Kofeeshtetch got to the point where their Horch robots were mopping up the rags and tags of flesh that was all there was left of the Others’ warriors, I began to hope for an ending. “The Greatmother has told me,” he was saying proudly, “of how vile the stench of those decomposing corpses was, so that for a time it was difficult to breathe, even more difficult to eat without vomiting. To carry on the work of this installation was very hard.”
Carry on? I did interrupt him then. “But this was an Others’ installation. Why would you want to carry on their work?”
He gave me a scornful hiss, thrusting his head in my face. His breath was not nearly as inoffensive as Beert’s. “Of course it had been operated by the Others. What of it? The Others are filthy vermin, but there are some few objectives we share in common. Do you want to hear the story of my parents or do you not?”
I wanted to hear what those common objectives were, but I wanted even more to get to my own desires. “Your parents were very, very brave,” I said with admiration. “I only hope that I can be as brave, and as successful, when I too fight against the Others.”
Kofeeshtetch swayed his neck indecisively back and forth for a moment. I could see that he was reluctant to give up his favorite subject, but he was torn.
I understood his dilemma. When my uncle Max Adcock, the not-very-successful buccaneer capitalist, told me about the next great stock raid or franchise operation that was going to make him rich at last, if only Uncle Cubby would help him out with a little seed capital, I always listened. To the ten-year-old I was at the time, it was exciting. I don’t mean that I liked Uncle Max. Apart from the fact that he was my cousin Pat’s father, I didn’t have much use for the man. Kofeeshtetch didn’t have a lot of use for lower organisms like me, either, but he had the same yearning to hear about exciting adventures. “Tell me your plan,” he said sulkily.
Actually, the word “plan” was a lot more dignified than my hazy notions deserved, but I did my best. I said, “A
