“Machiavelli.” His adjutant pronounced the alien name with care, one syllable at a time. “He lived and wrote about nine hundred years ago. Nine hundred of our years, I should say-half as many of Tosev 3’s.”

“So he came after our probe, then?” Atvar said, and Pshing made the affirmative gesture. The Race had studied Tosev 3 sixteen hundred years before: again, half that many in Tosevite terms. The fleetlord went on, “Remember the sword-swinging savage mounted on an animal the probe showed us? He was the height of Tosevite military technology in those days.”

“A pity he did not remain the height of Tosevite military technology, as we were so confident he would,” Pshing said. “When we understand how the Big Uglies are able to change so rapidly, we will be able to prevent them from doing so in the future. That will help bind them to the Empire.”

“So it will… if we can do it,” Atvar replied. “If not, we will wreck them one not-empire at a time. Or, if necessary, we will destroy this whole world, even our colonies on it. That will cauterize it once for all.”

One other possibility remained, a possibility that had never entered his mind when the conquest fleet first reached Tosev 3: the Big Uglies might conquer the Race. If they did, they would next mount an attack on Home. Atvar was as sure of it as of the fact that he’d hatched from an egg. Wrecking the world would prevent it, as a surgeon sometimes had to prevent death by cutting out a tumor.

With the Reich prostrate, the Big Uglies would have a much harder time of it. Atvar knew that. But the worry never went away. The locals were quicker, more adaptable, than the Race. He knew that, too; close to fifty of his years of experience on Tosev 3 had burned the lesson into him again and again.