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convince the human . . . “Maybe I’ve arrived just in time, then. Mr. Talbot, hasn’t it occurred to you that the policies the three of us agree on could have very far-reaching—”
    “My dear,” the human interrupted, “we’re not here to agree. You’re very young and very idealistic, and believe me, I applaud that. But you must realize that governments rarely do things for the reasons given the public. We were sent here to disagree. My comrade here”—he nodded at Korrd—“tried to make a difference, and look where it landed him. This ’great experiment,’ as you call it, was instigated merely to satisfy a bunch of bleeding hearts whining for galactic peace. It was intended from the beginning to fail.”
    Caithlin felt her expression harden at Talbot’s words, but she forced herself not to give up. “I’m afraid I don’t share that view. We could
make
it succeed, regardless of anyone’s original intention.”
    But Talbot shrugged her words off. “There, you see?” He smiled as if pleased. “We’re disagreeing already.”
    She persisted. “I’m here to open discussions for a solution to these problems. Mr. Talbot, why don’t—”
    Korrd suddenly came to life; he spat out a disgusting mouthful of Klingon, then leaned back in his chair, which seemed on the verge of splintering under his weight, and roared with laughter at his own wittiness. Whatever he said caused Talbot to wince noticeably.
    It did not take a translation for Caithlin to understand that she had just been insulted. “What did he say?” She glared at Talbot in a way calculated to make the human realize that she would no longer tolerate any deception, no matter how polite or well intended. “I want his
exact
words. No lies this time.”
    Talbot seemed to shrink in his chair; his expression became miserable. “He said”—his voice was so faint she had to lean very close to hear—“he said that the only thing he’d like you to open is your blouse. He’s heard Romulan women are different.” He looked away, too embarrassed to meet her eyes.
    Caithlin stood up so abruptly that her chair very nearly tipped over backwards. A rush of blood warmed her face. So the old bastard spoke English after all. There was no way he could have understood her last comment; Talbot had not been translating.
    Caithlin had told the truth when she said she spoke no Klingon. Except for one particular epithet. She hurled it at Korrd with venom and hoped her accent was correct.
    It was. Korrd hoisted his ponderous girth out of the chair and hurled the flask aside. It shattered on the gritty floor, spraying glass and evil-smelling liquor everywhere.
    “Screw
you,
too!” he snarled—in near-perfect English.
    Talbot gasped in what appeared to be genuine surprise; apparently Caithlin hadn’t been the only one the Klingon had deceived. “Korrd, you sly old bugger! All this time—”
    “So.” Caithlin smiled triumphantly. “You
do
speak English. I’m glad to hear it. . . It will make our work that much easier.”
    The old Klingon was on the verge of replying when, outside in the distance, a warning siren began to wail. Korrd and Talbot froze.
    Shouts came from the street, followed by the sounds of customers making a hasty exit from the saloon. Caithlin frowned in confusion. “What is it? What’s happening?”
    “The city,” Talbot said, listening, his eyes wide. “Someone’s trying to invade the city . . . though God knows why anyone would want to.”
    Korrd snorted at the idea, but he strode from the back room out into the now-emptied bar and through the double doors into the dirt street outside. Caithlin and Talbot followed.
    A ragtag army of grim-faced homesteaders, all of them armed with pipe guns, was making its way downthe street. In its midst, a lone white-cloaked figure rode regally on horseback.
    The soldiers were very clearly headed this way.
    “What the devil. . . ?” Talbot breathed next to Caithlin’s ear.
    The town’s dwellers