She was observant, intelligent, and keenly sensitive to the inevitable differences Between their cultures, and her military credentials were impressive. The lieutenant was only fifty-three - twei't'tty-e't't^ht, by hex people's reckoning - but s't't't'te had seen the zeget. Her mess tunic bore the ribbon of the Federation's Military Cross, the Valkhaanairs equivalent, which must have been hard to come by in the fifty Terran years of peace since ISW-3. Perhaps, he speculated idly, she had been chosen for this duty by her superiors just as carefully as he was coming to believe First Fang Lokarnah had chosen him?

"Ah, Saahmaantha!" he said now. "At times, you are too much like one of my own for comfort."

"I take that as a compliment, Captain," Johansen said, chewing another slice of zeget appreciatively. In fact, she found it overly gamy, but it was a warrior's dish. The bear-like zeget was four furry meters of raw fury, the most feared predator of the original Orion homeworld, and Least Claw Khardanish had done her great honor by ordering it served.

"Do you?" Khardanish poured more wine. The Terran vintage was overly dry for his palate, but it had been Johansen's gift, and he drank it with the pleasure she deserved of him. He tilted his glass, admiring the play of light in the ruby liquid. "Then I will tell you something, Lieutenant. Do you know what we Theeerkou'valkhan-naieee call our two wars with you?"

"Yes, Captain," Johansen said softly. " `The Wars of Shame.'"

"Precisely." He sipped delicately. "I find that apt even though we are now aUies. We had twice the systems, ten times the population, and a navy, and you had - what? A few dozen lightly-armed survey vessels? Should not any warrior feel shame for losing to an enemy so much weaker than he?"

Johansen met his eyes calmly, and the least claw approved. Even among his own people, many would have sought to hide their discomfort with some polite nothing; this Human merely waited.