I looked back at the Yavanni flanking my path, one a little way ahead and tomyleft, the other two to my right. They still hadn't moved, but I had the mentalpicture of coiled springs being tightened a couple more turns. I hadn't run, didn't look like I was going to run, and their small minds were simmering ineager anticipation of the moment when I put a foot across that invisiblebarrier and they got to see how many colors of bruises they could raise on me.

I wasn't armed, at least not seriously. Even if I had been, blasting away fromclose range at three full-size Yavanni was not a recommended procedure foranyone desiring a long and happy life. But there was a trick I'd heard about afew years ago, a nice little combination of Yavannian psychology andphysiology that I'd tucked away for possible future reference. It looked, as the sayingwent, like the future was now. Gazing at each of the Yavanni in turn, Icleared my throat. "Do your mothers know you boys are here?" I demanded in the deepestvoice I could manage.

Three jaws dropped in unison. "It's late," I continued before they couldrespond. "You should be home. Go home. Now."

They looked at each other, their earlier anticipation floundering inconfusion.

Talking like a Yavannian dominant male was probably the last response they'dexpected from an alien half their size, and the molasses they used for brainswas having trouble adjusting to the situation. "Did you hear me?" I snapped, putting some anger into my voice. "Go home."

The one on the left apparently had faster molasses than the other two. "Youare not Yavannian," he snarled back at me in typically Yavannian-mangled English.