The Captain hurried, knowing that the Telepath couldn’t stand this for long. “How do they power their ship?”

“It’s a light-pressure drive powered by incomplete hydrogen fusion. They use an electromagnetic ramscoop to get their own hydrogen from space.”

“Clever… Can they get away from us?”

“No. Their drive is on idle, ready to go, but it won’t help them. It’s pitifully weak.”

“What kind of weapons do they have?”

The Telepath remained silent for a long time. The others waited patiently for his answer. There was sound in the control dome, but it was the kind of sound one learns not to hear: the whine of heavy current, the muted purr of voices from below, the strange sound like continuously ripping cloth which came from the gravity motors.

“None at all, sir.” The Kzin’s voice became clearer; his hypnotic relaxation was broken by muscle twitches. He twisted as if in a nightmare. “Nothing aboard ship, not even a knife or a club. Wait, they’ve got cooking knives. But that’s all they use them for. They don’t fight.”

“They don’t fight?”

“No, sir. They don’t expect us to fight, either. The idea has occurred to three of them, and each has dismissed it from his mind.”

“But why?” the Captain asked, knowing the question was irrelevant, unable to hold it back.

“I don’t know, sir. It’s a science they use, or a religion. I don’t understand,” the Telepath whimpered. “I don’t understand at all.”

Which must be tough on him, the Captain thought. Completely alien thoughts. “What are they doing now?”

“Waiting for us to talk to them. They tried to talk to us, and they think we must be trying just as hard.”

“But why?—never mind, it’s not important. Can they be killed by heat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Break contact.”

The Telepath shook his head violently. He looked like he’d been in a washing machine. The Captain touched a sensitized surface and bellowed, “Weapons Officer!”