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No wonder Catherine Kittredge’s eyes were wide and bewildered.

They were her best feature, Flandry decided: large, set far apart, a gold-flecked hazel under long lashes and thick dark brows. Her hair would have been nice too, a blonde helmet, if she had not cut it off just below the ears. Otherwise she was nothing much to look at — a broad, snub-nosed, faintly freckled countenance, generous mouth and good chin. As nearly as one could tell through a shapeless gray coverall, she was of medium height and on the stocky side. She spoke Anglic with a soft regional accent that sounded good in her low voice; but all her mannerisms were provincial, fifty years out of date. Flandry wondered a little desperately what they could talk about.

Well, there was business enough. He flicked buttons for autoservice. “What are you drinking?” he asked. “We’ve anything within reason, and a few things out of reason, on board.”

She blushed. “Nothin", thank you,” she mumbled.

“Nothing at all? Come, now. Daiquiri? Wine? Beer? Buttermilk, for heaven’s sake?”

“Hm?” She raised a fleeting glance. He discovered Vixen had no dairy industry, cattle couldn’t survive there, and dialed ice cream for her. He himself slugged down a large gin-and-bitters. He was going to need alcohol — two weeks alone in space with Little Miss Orphan!

She was pleased enough by discovering ice cream to relax a trifle. Flandry offered a cigaret, was refused, and started one for himself. “You’ll have plenty of time to brief me en route,” he said, “so don’t feel obliged to answer questions now, if it distresses you.”

Catherine Kittredge looked beyond him, out the viewscreen and into the frosty sprawl of Andromeda. Her lips twitched downward, ever so faintly. But she replied with a steadiness he liked: “Why not? ’Twon’t bother me more’n sittin’ an’ broodin’.”

“Good girl. Tell me, how did you happen to carry the message?”

“My brother was our official courier. You know how ’tis on planets like ours, without much population or money: who-ever’s got the best spaceship gets a subsidy an’ carries any special dispatches. I helped him. We used to go off jauntin’ for days at a time, an’ — No,” she broke off. Her fists closed. “I won’t bawl. The aliens forced a landin’. Hank went off with our groun’ forces. He didn’t come back. Sev’ral days after the surrender, when things began to settle down a little, I got the news he’d been killed in action. A few of us decided the Imperium had better be given what information we could supply. Since I knew Hank’s ship best, they tol’ me to go.”

“I see.” Flandry determined to keep this as dry as possible, for her sake. “I’ve a copy of the report your people made up, of course, but you had all the way to Sol to study it, so you must know more about it than anyone else off Vixen. Just to give me a rough preliminary idea, I understand some of the invaders knew Anglic and there was a certain amount of long-range parleying. What did they call themselves?”

“Does that matter?” she asked listlessly.

“Not in the faintest, at the present stage of things, except that it’s such a weary cliche to speak of Planet X.”

She smiled, a tiny bit. “They called themselves the Ardazirho, an’ we gathered the ho was a collective endin’. So we figure their planet is named Ardazir. Though I can’t come near pronouncin’ it right.”

Flandry took a stereopic from the pocket of his iridescent shirt. It had been snapped from hiding, during the ground battle. Against a background of ruined human homes crouched a single enemy soldier. Warrior? Acolyte? Unit? Armed, at least, and a killer of men.

Preconceptions always got in the way. Flandry’s first startled thought had been Wolf. Now he realized that of course the Ardazirho was not lupine, didn’t even look notably wolfish. Yet the impression lingered. He was not surprised when Catherine Kittredge said the aliens had gone howling into battle.

They were described as man-size bipeds, but digitigrade, which gave their feet almost the appearance of a dog’s walking on its hind legs. The shoulders and arms were very humanoid, except that the thumbs were on the opposite side of the hands from mankind’s. The head, arrogantly held on a powerful neck, was long and narrow for an intelligent animal, with a low forehead, most of the brain space behind the pointed ears. A black-nosed muzzle, not as sharp as a wolf’s and yet somehow like it, jutted out of the face. Its lips were pulled back in a snarl, showing bluntly pointed fangs which suggested a flesh-eater turned omnivore. The eyes were oval, close set, and gray as sleet. Short thick fur covered the entire body, turning to a ruff at the throat; it was rusty red.

“Is this a uniform?” asked Flandry.

The girl leaned close to see. The pictured Ardazirho wore a sort of kilt, in checkerboard squares of various hues. Flandry winced at some of the combinations: rose next to scarlet, a glaring crimson offensively between two delicate yellows. “Barbarians indeed,” he muttered. “I hope Chives can stand the shock.” Otherwise the being was dressed in boots of flexible leather and a harness from which hung various pouches and equipment. He was armed with what was obviously a magnetronic rifle, and had a wicked-looking knife at his belt.

“I’m not sure,” said the girl. “Either they don’t use uniforms at all, or they have such a variety that we’ve not made any sense of it. Some might be dressed more or less like him, others in a kind o’ tunic an’ burnoose, others in breastplates an’ fancy plumed helmets.”

“Him,” pounced Flandry. “They’re all male, then?”

“Yes, sir, seems that way. The groun’ fightin’ lasted long enough for our biologists to dissect an’ analyze a few o’ their dead. Accorclin’ to the report, they’re placental mammals. It’s clear they’re from a more or less terrestroid planet, probably with a somewhat stronger gravity. The eye structure suggests their sun is bright, type A5 or thereabouts. That means they should feel pretty much at home in our badlands.” Catherine Kittredge shrugged sadly. “Figure that’s why they picked us to start on.”

“They might have been conquering for some time,” said Flandry. “A hot star like an A5 is no use to humans; and I imagine the F-type like yours is about as cool as they care for. They may well have built up a little coterminous kingdom, a number of B, A, and F suns out in your quadrant, where we don’t even have a complete astronomical mapping — let alone having explored much … Hm. Didn’t you get a chance to interrogate any live prisoners?”

“Yes. ’Twasn’t much use. Durin’ the fightin’, one of our regiments did encircle a unit o’ theirs an’ knock it out with stun beams. When two o’ them woke up an’ saw they were captured, they died.”

“Preconditioning,” nodded Flandry. “Go on.”

“The rest didn’t speak any Anglic, ’cept one who’d picked up a little bit. They questioned him.” The girl winced. “I don’t figure ’twas very nice. The report says toward the end his heart kept stoppin’ an’ they’d revive it, but at last he died for good … Anyway, it seems a fair bet he was tellin’ the truth. An’ he didn’t know where his home star was. He could understan’ our coordinate system, an’ translate it into the one they used. But that was zeroed arbitrarily on S Doradus , an’ he didn’t have any idea about the coordinates of Ardazir.”