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By Poul Anderson

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Flandry got his summons in two or three hours. —and preceded his armed guide forward. The layout resembled that of a human vessel. Details varied, to allow for variations in size, shape, language, and culture. Yet it was the same enclosing metal narrowness, the same drone and vibration, the same warm oily-smelling gusts from ventilator grilles, the same duties to perform. But the crew were big, green-skinned, hairless, spined and tailed. Their outfits were black, of foreign cut and drape, belts holding war knives.

Alarm struck him. " "I…don't know. Dizzy—" "Oh, well. " Cold fingers clutched his arm. "Nicky. This moon. " she shrieked like an insect. " Why should that make that much difference, right now? flashed through him. " she gasped. " Her eyes rolled back till he saw only whiteness. She sagged in his embrace. "Fainted," he muttered, and eased her down. " Reviving after a while, Djana sobbed. She wouldn't tell him why. Presently she was as near hysteria as her condition permitted. The computer found a sedative which Flandry administered.

A guard was posted, but committed no molestation. Prisoners could scarcely have been vouchsafed more on this class of warcraft; and the time in space would not be long. Djana kept keening. "I thought they were human, I thought they were human, only an-an-another damn gang—" She clung to him. " A story of an intelligence ring on Irumclaw, headed by that Rax—whose planet of origin is doubtless in the Roidhunate, not the Empire—and probably staffed by members of the local syndicates. Not to mention the fact that apparently there is a Merseian base in the wilderness, this close to our borders.

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