Intelligence, when it came to that planet, came in a suitable form. A form which, when other intelligences discovered them-more technologically advanced intelligences, but not smarter ones-could see nothing beyond the stiff shield of Gha faces. And the immense strength of Gha bodies.

The Gha were famed-notorious-among all the intelligent races of the galaxy. They were the epitome of the stolid dullwit. Only the Gha themselves knew of their inner life. Of the subtle ways in which their breath transmitted meaning; their voices, undertones of sentiment.

Only the Gha knew of their poetry. To galactic civilization-to the Doge Species which ruled that civilization-the Gha were nothing more than splendid thugs. The galaxy’s premier goons.

Fludenoc shook off the anger. (Literally. His fellows, watching, understood the nuances of that shoulder movement as perfectly as he had understood the skepticism in Oltomar’s hiss.)

“I’m quite serious, Oltomar. Even before this incident, I thought the Romans were the best possibility we had ever encountered.”

“Too primitive,” interjected Uddumac. “We talked it about, you and I, long ago.”

Uddumac gestured to the Voivode’s corpse on the floor. “The first time we had the misfortune of being assigned to this worm. We talked about it, then, and we reached a common conclusion. For all their astonishing competence, the Romans were simply too primitive. Barbarians, to all intents and purposes.”

Oltomar chimed in. Again, literally. The chime-syllable which prefaced his words was a Gha way of expressing agreement.

“Yes. Nothing’s changed simply because they managed to seize their troop transport. If they seized it. I’m not sure the worm’s theory was correct, but even if it is-so what? The Romans are still barbarians. The Poct’on has always known that-”