“I gave the command because our opportunity has finally arrived.”
“What opportunity?” asked the Gha holding the Medic.
Fludenoc’s whole upper torso swiveled to face his questioner. For all its immense strength, the Gha physique was not limber. Evolved on a heavy-gravity planet, Gha necks were almost completely rigid.
“You know perfectly well what opportunity, Oltomar. The same opportunity the Poct’on has been searching for since it was founded.”
Oltomar’s response was a quick, wavering hiss.
Fludenoc, understanding the subtleties in that hiss, felt a sudden surge of bitter anger. His anger, and his bitterness, were not directed toward Oltomar. They were directed at the universe, in general; and galactic civilization, in particular.
The same evolutionary necessities which had produced the rigid upper vertebra of the Gha species, had also produced their stiff, unmoving faces. The bleak, wind-scoured, heavy planet where Gha had originated was merciless. No soft, supple, flexible animals could survive there—only creatures which presented a hard shield to the world, and thereby withstood its heavy lashes.
Intelligence, when it came to that planet, came in a suitable form. A form which, when other intelligences discovered them—more technologically advanced intelligences, but not smarter ones—could see nothing beyond the stiff shield of Gha faces. And the immense strength of Gha bodies.
The Gha were famed—notorious—among all the intelligent races of the galaxy. They were the epitome of the stolid dullwit. Only the Gha themselves knew of their inner life. Of the subtle ways in which their breath transmitted meaning; their voices, undertones of sentiment.
Only the Gha knew of their poetry. To galactic civilization—to the Doge Species which ruled that civilization—the Gha were nothing more than splendid thugs. The galaxy’s premier goons.
Fludenoc shook off the anger. (Literally. His fellows, watching, understood the nuances of that shoulder movement as perfectly as he had understood the skepticism in Oltomar’s hiss.)
“I’m quite serious, Oltomar. Even before this incident, I thought the Romans were the best possibility we had ever encountered.”
“Too primitive,” interjected Uddumac. “We talked it about, you and I, long ago.”
Uddumac gestured to the Voivode’s corpse on the floor. “The first time we had the misfortune of being assigned to this worm. We talked about it, then, and we reached a common conclusion. For all their astonishing competence, the Romans were simply too primitive. Barbarians, to all intents and purposes.”
Oltomar chimed in. Again, literally. The chime-syllable which prefaced his words was a Gha way of expressing agreement.
“Yes. Nothing’s changed simply because they managed to seize their troop transport. If they seized it. I’m not sure the worm’s theory was correct, but even if it is—so what? The Romans are still barbarians. The Poct’on has always known that—”
Fludenoc silenced him with a gesture. Left hand before his face, palm outward, fingers spread. Stop—I must interrupt.
“You’re missing the significance of the new data,” he said. “That’s why I gave the order to kill them.” His next gesture—right hand turned aside, waist high, fingers curled against the thumb—was the Gha expression of apology.
“That’s also why I didn’t wait until we had an opportunity to discuss the matter, as a Poct’on cartouche would normally do. I had to stop the Pilot from transmitting anything to Guild Headquarters. I’m hoping the Federation itself doesn’t understand the significance of the meteorological report. The Guilds may still not know of it at all.”
The other three Gha in the room were silent. Their stiff postures, to anyone but Gha, would have made them seem like statues. But Fludenoc understood their confusion and puzzlement.
To his surprise, the Pilot suddenly spoke. Fludenoc had almost forgotten her presence.
“Are you talking about the radio signals?” she asked.
Fludenoc swiveled to face her. The Pilot froze with instinctive fear, but her color remained close to purple. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, in Gha. “I didn’t mean—”
“I did not realize you spoke our language,” said Fludenoc.
Then, sadly (though only a Gha would have sensed it in his tone):
“I am not angry at you for interrupting me, Pilot. Among ourselves, we consider conversation a fine art. Interruption is part of its pleasure.”
The Pilot’s shade developed a pinkish undertone. “I know. I have listened to you, sometimes, when you versified each other in your chamber. I thought the poetry was quite good. Although I’m sure I missed most of the nuances.”