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were already in hiding. Caithlin thought of the phaser and the long knife with the delicately carved nacre handle, both of which she had left behind on her home planet, and swore under her breath at the intruders. By Romulan standards, their weapons were laughably crude, but she had no means now of protecting herself from them.
    She turned to ask Talbot if he knew who the soldiers were—and saw that he and Korrd had fled back into the saloon. She went inside and found the Klingon behind the bar, pouring the contents of an upended bottle down his throat.
    Talbot had gone to a far corner of the bar and yanked a dusty cover from a communications terminal. He bent over it now in a desperate attempt to get it working. Caithlin joined him to see if she could help, but the terminal was ancient; she had never seen one with similar controls. Clearly it was as old as the city of Paradise, and it had probably not been used since the outpost was first constructed.
    Talbot jabbed furiously at the controls again, then waited for a response, eyes focused on the viewscreen, long trembling fingers poised over the keys.
    The screen remained dark.
    “I don’t understand,” Caithlin said next to him. “I wasn’t briefed about any group that wanted to seize control of the city. Who are they? What do they want?”
    Again Talbot stabbed at the controls in vain. “I don’t know,” he said unsteadily. When the terminal again failed to respond, he straightened and looked at Caithlin with uncertainty and fear in his eyes.
    “I don’t know,” Talbot repeated, and then he visibly took control of himself. His tone lightened. “My dear, you know as much as I. What do
you
think on seeing an armed group of hostile homesteaders marching this way?”
    Caithlin heard a steadily growing rumble in the background—the sound of soldiers approaching on foot.
    “They clearly mean to seize control of whatever government exists here,” Caithlin answered. “Which means that our lives could be in danger. I think we should do what the townspeople have already done—flee. After all, they have weapons, and we have none.”
    “Korrd has a pistol,” Talbot offered weakly.
    She shook her head. “Hardly enough to do us any good. We should leave.”
    Talbot raised his pale eyebrows in feigned surprise. “And you a Romulan! I thought you never surrendered.”
    “Even a Romulan finds no disgrace in avoiding conflict when the opponents are unevenly matched.”
    “Then go.” Talbot sighed. “You’re young: you have a future—that is, if you can get past the stigma of having Nimbus on your résumé. But there’s no reason Korrd and I should go with you.”
    “They might kill you!”
    “They might.” Talbot smiled thinly. “That would probably be one of the nicer things to happen to eitherof us in a very long time. But if the group outside has gone to all this trouble to find the government. . . well, I think it would be rather rude for no one to be here to greet them. Someone’s got to listen to their demands.” When Caithlin remained, frowning at him, he said gently, “Go, my dear. Korrd and I will handle them. After all, someone has to notify our governments.”
    The rumble grew threateningly loud; the crowd was almost outside the saloon.
    “No,” Caithlin said. She was no longer quite so sure that she disliked St. John Talbot. “I’ll stay. As a representative of the Romulan government, I need to find out what these people want. Maybe they’re peaceable. After all, we haven’t heard any shots fired.”
    “Yet,” Talbot said. “Look, if you go now, you can get out through the back room.” He bent over the dark terminal screen and listlessly pressed a few keys. “You see, it simply isn’t going to work.”
    The saloon doors crashed open and several homesteaders swarmed into the bar, all of them bearing handmade weapons. One of them pointed a pipe gun at Talbot and Caithlin.
    “Get away from that screen!” he shouted, aiming his weapon