Now, for additional homeliness, it had been furnished with a collapsible table and a pair of canvas chairs, in one of which sat the man who called himself Colonel Wilkins. He looked hot and bothered. Sweat sheened his forehead and his cheeks. Dried blood stippled the front of his fatigues.

David was made to sit in the other chair. The Nephthysians who had brought him took up position on either side of him, but Wilkins dismissed them with a flick of his fingers.

''The lieutenant and I are both civilised men,'' he said. ''I am sure we can work things out through amicable discussion and nothing more.''

Wilkins was now talking with a faint Middle Eastern inflection, no longer having to pretend to be American.

''Date?'' he asked, proffering a plate of the fruits. They looked deliciously fat and plump, and David could imagine crushing one between his teeth, bursting open its sweetly fibrous flesh, gulping it down.

But he shook his head. ''Under the…'' he began. His voice was a papery rasp. He ran his tongue around his mouth and tried again. ''Under the terms of the Global Convention for the Proper Treatment of Prisoners of War-''

''Let me stop you right there, lieutenant,'' said Wilkins, holding up a hand like a traffic policeman. ''One, I know the wording of the Convention as well as you do. Two, I don't care about your name, rank, and serial number. Three, you and your men have been taken captive after illegally entering our territory, rather than in the course of battle, which renders the Convention null and void in this instance. You are not prisoners of war. You are my prisoners, and I will treat you however I wish.''