the last World War: Hirohito, poet; Mauldin,
cartoonist; Eisenhower and Churchill, both painters; and Hitler,
architect. It seemed plausible that art was as important here in
everyday surroundings as it seemed; he would use that as a working
hypothesis unless he found evidence to the contrary.

Then there were the few hints he had about family life. It was
important, that was obvious, and he couldn't help speculating, despite
almost total lack of data, on what it was like. There was strong clan
structure, yes, but "clan" covered a lot of territory. With the low
proportion of women and the touchiness about parenthood, the setup
might be like the old Arabian sheikdoms, with women belonging to the
dominant males and kept in a kind of protective custody, used as
breeding machines.

He didn't like that picture, though he knew a lot of human men would
find it an attractive fantasy. Still, under the circumstances, it
seemed like a reasonable assumption.

Then he rolled over, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, as his
thoughts went back to his earlier misgivings. Dammit, he didn't want
to brood about that! Sure, bringing peace would be worth his life;
plenty of others had paid that price, without the half-promise he had.
He'd have to follow them into final nothingness eventually, and he'd go
without protest if he knew it would mean the end of this ten-year
slaughter--but it wouldn't.

He couldn't die, not if he was to bring peace. He had to live, to
survive an Ordeal that sometimes killed beings as tenacious of life as
the sharks they resembled. It helped, knowing that they wanted him to
succeed--and why shouldn't they? It was their race's survival that was
at stake, not humanity's.

If it was possible, he promised himself, he'd do it. He had a brief
vision of himself at a Grand Audience afterward, approaching the
Emperor accompanied by several shadowy Traiti. He was in full formal
uniform, his dress cloak brushing the carpet--but his shirt was open,
neatly arranged to show the four scars down his chest, and he let
himself smile at the image. Wouldn't the newsies and protocol
perfectionists be upset!

But that was enough of that; he really should try to rest. It had been
a rough day, a strain on even a Ranger's ability to adapt. Stretched
out in the dark, surrounded by the soft rhythms of breathing and the
somehow reassuring smell of clean bodies, Tarlac felt his tension ease.
Only then did he real