ed us into a baggage warehouse at the terminal. Then they
hauled us here in a garbage truck----"

"Garbage truck!"

"Only symbolic, of course. They ushered us in the tradesman's entrance,
and assigned us cubicles in the servants' wing. Then we were seated
with the coolie class sweepers at the bottom of the table."

"You must be.... I mean, we're the Terrestrial delegation! Surely these
Yill must realize our power."

"Precisely, Mr. Magnan. But----"

With a clang of cymbals the musicians launched a renewed assault. Six
tall, helmeted Yill sprang into the center of the floor and paired off
in a wild performance, half dance, half combat. Magnan pulled at
Retief's arm, his mouth moving.

Retief shook his head. No one could talk against a Yill orchestra in
full cry. He sampled a bright red wine and watched the show.

There was a flurry of action, and two of the dancers stumbled and
collapsed, their partner-opponents whirling away to pair off again,
describe the elaborate pre-combat ritual, and abruptly set to, dulled
sabres clashing--and two more Yill were down, stunned. It was a violent
dance.

Retief watched, the drink forgotten.

The last two Yill approached and retreated, whirled, bobbed and spun,
feinted and postured--and on the instant, clashed, straining
chest-to-chest--then broke apart, heavy weapons chopping, parrying, as
the music mounted to a frenzy.

[Illustration]

Evenly matched, the two hacked, thrust, blow for blow, across the
floor, then back, defense forgotten, slugging it out.

And then one was slipping, going down, helmet awry. The other, a giant,
muscular Yill, spun away, whirled in a mad skirl of pipes as coins
showered--then froze before a gaudy table, raised the sabre and slammed
it down in a resounding blow across the gay cloth before a lace and
bow-bedecked Yill in the same instant that the music stopped.

In utter silence the dancer-fighter stared across the table at the
seated Yill.

With a shout, the Yill leaped up, raised a clenched fist. The dancer
bowed his head, spread his hands on his helmet.

Retief took a deep gulp of a pale yellow liqueur and leaned forward to
watch. The beribboned Yill waved a hand negligently, spilled a handful
of coins across the table and sat down.

The challenger spun away in a screeching shrill of music. Retief caught
his eye for an instant as he passed.

And then the dancer stood rigid before the brocaded table--and the music
stopped off shor