The alien was a Type 41—a human, just as Ortega had once been, but that had been so long ago he had almost forgotten what it was like. Lanky, dark-complected, with a lean, heavily boned triangular face, he was dressed in a plaid work shirt, heavy slacks, and well-worn boots. For a moment Ortega thought it must be Brazil, and a thrill shot through him. But, no, he told himself, Brazil could disguise himself in a number of ways, but he couldn’t add fifty or more centimeters, at least not so convincingly. “Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?” Ortega asked the newcomer.

The man shifted around and put his arms behind his head, looking comfortable and slightly amused by all this. “Just call me Gypsy,” he replied lightly. “Everybody does. Mind if I smoke?”

His insolent manner irritated Ortega, but curiosity overwhelmed all other emotions. “No, go ahead.”

Gypsy reached in a shirt pocket and removed a long, thin, Com-style cigarette from a pack, then a small silver lighter, and lit up. Curls of blue-gray smoke rose into the air as he puffed to make sure it was lit.

“Thanks,” he responded, putting the lighter away and resuming his comfortable posture. “Filthy habit, I admit, but handy. What with the Ambreza monopoly on tobacco here, they’re better than gold.”

A coldness crept up and down Ortega’s spine. “You have to have heard that at a briefing, probably one by Brazil,” he guessed. “The humans here don’t look much like you. You have just arrived here. I’m surprised they didn’t shoot you.”

Gypsy chuckled. “They didn’t shoot me because I didn’t just arrive at all. I’ve been here for weeks, in fact. As to how I got here, I came through the Zone Gate.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” the Ulik accused. “The Ambreza wouldn’t let any Type 41 through the Gate right now.”

“I didn’t use the Ambreza gate,” Gypsy responded cooly. “I used… ah, shall we say, a different gate. I’d rather not say which one right now.”