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  "Rogue dragon!" someone screamed as they slammed into the terminal. Men scurried about, spreading out a huge net with which to snare the rampant beast. But Flint smiled, and drew in on the reins gently. The dragon screeched to a stop precisely on target, its giant claws chiseling furrows out of the packed dirt. Flint dismounted in a cloud of steam and dust, gave the dragon a comradely pat on the nose, and marched regally into the main gate.

  A shaken flunky took his name and planet, and another led away the dragon, who gave Flint another brief but meaningful glance. The rapport of Kirlians operated independently of species or intellect. Right now Flint had other things to do, but he would come to see the dragon again. He preferred its company to that of ordinary human beings.

  And where there was one high-Kirlian animal, there might be others. Were all dragons like this here, or just this one? Probably no animals had been measured for this quality; few natives understood the nature of the regular Imperial surveys. Flint had been ignorant as a child and young warrior. Now he understood the secret of much of his success as a hunter on Outworld, and perhaps as a flintsmith too. Some animals and even some objects possessed auras, and he had unconsciously related to these.

  "Ooooh, there's a handsome one," a female voice remarked as he entered the gate.

  Flint picked out the owner of that voice. It was a girl—like none he had seen before. Her face was pretty, and her breasts were astonishingly uplifted and full, seeming about to burst out of harness, but the rest of her was grotesque. Her arms were grossly bloated to the wrists, and her hips jutted out at right angles into a posterior like an overgrown swamp hummock, a massive mound dropping vertically to the floor. Two pegs protruded from that voluminous skirt, and Flint realized these were her slippered feet. And her face and hands and the alarming cleavage of her bosom were light blue.

  "Haven't you seen a woman before?" she inquired.

  "Don't stare," the voice in his skull said. It was the Ambassador, on the job. "I can't look through your eyes, but I'm assuming from the voice that you've just met one of the palace escorts, a handmaiden to the Queen. She—"

  "Shut up," Flint mumbled, not pleased to have had this encounter intercepted.

  The blue girl gave him an arch glance. "Well!"

  "Not you," Flint said quickly. "I was addressing my beating heart. I have not before observed such beauty." The Shaman would not have approved of such a lie, but it seemed necessary.

  "Wow! You'll do fine here," the Ambassador said. "That's the ticket." Flint wondered what a ticket was.

  The girl flushed very prettily, her face, breasts, and hands turning so dark they were almost green. That made her look better. Flint realized that the flunkies outside had been blue too, but he hadn't noted it in the poor light. Just as his own people were green, and Sol's people were shades of white, brown, and black, these Capellans were blue. It all depended on the environment, especially the type of stellar radiation they received.

  "You must be the envoy from Etamin. We know there are real men there."

  "Yes," Flint agreed. "Will you guide me to the..."

  "Throneroom," the Ambassador supplied.

  "Throneroom?" Flint finished. "I am a stranger here."

  "Gladly, sir," she agreed, putting one hand on his elbow, sliding her arm inside his. "I am Delle."

  "I am Flint of Outworld," he said as she walked him down a long hall. "I am from a primitive world."

  "Yes. The gossip is all over the palace, how you brought Old Scorch to heel. That must have been some—"

  "The dragon?" But of course it was. Just as the most ornery dinosaur of his region of Outworld had been dubbed Old Snort, a term both respectful and descriptive, the most ornery dragon here would be Old Scorch. Evidently news traveled like lightning in the palace, unless the girls had been watching from a window. "He's a fine animal."

  "He's burned eleven men in his day," she said. "That's approaching a record. Usually an animal is destroyed after three, but he's the Queen's pet. He never scorches her, you bet. He's not supposed to be used beyond the palace grounds, but there must have been a foulup."

  "Very interesting," the voice in his skull remarked. "They were supposed to send a docile animal."

  "As I said," Flint proceeded, "I am primitive. Please do not take offense—but I am unfamiliar with your apparel. Does it reflect your form?"

  "My form?" She looked perplexed.

  "On my world, women have thinner arms and—"

  "Watch it!" the Ambassador snapped.

  "—legs," Flint finished.

  Delle laughed so heartily her breasts actually flopped in the rigid half-cups. "Here, I'll show you." She glanced back down the hall, then drew him into an alcove. When she was satisfied they had privacy she pulled the side of her neckline away from her shoulder, baring her upper arm and half of the rest of her breast. "See, these are padded sleeves. It's the fashion, also warm on cold nights. I'm really quite skinny underneath."

  And all blue. "Oh." Flint was relieved. "Forgive the confusion of a barbarian."

  "You really thought all that was me?"

  "I could not be certain. The skirt—"

  "What a fat ass you thought I had!" she exclaimed, delighted. "Well, catch a glimpse of this!" And she drew up a bulging hank of her skirt and petticoats to display as slender and symmetrical a pair of blue legs as Flint could have wished. "This is a farthingale, a kind of bustle under the skirt. I'm quite human underneath. I have all the things a woman needs. Here, put your hand—"

  "Careful!" the voice in his skull cried.

  "Why?" Flint asked both girl and voice.

  "To feel my thigh," Delle said. "To prove it's real. And whatever else you may doubt. It really is all there."

  "Because she'll seduce you if she can, quite without qualm," the Ambassador explained at the same time, like a conscience. "You are a handsome man from an enticingly primitive planet, and she would gain notoriety. Don't let it happen. Suppose the Queen wanted your service, and you just had exhausted yourself with a handmaiden, little better than a chambermaid? Very bad form."

  Oho! Flint did not know the distinction between a handmaiden and a chambermaid, but he got the drift. First the dragon, then the flirt, testing him. The Queen was taking a greater interest in him than he had supposed.

  Flint put his hand on her firm thigh. "Excellent," he remarked sincerely. He slid his fingers up to cup her supple buttock. "How I regret I cannot explore this matter further."

  "Oh, but you can," Delle said warmly. "I know a room where no one goes, and it has a huge bed—"

  "But my urgency to wish Queen Bess a happy birthday is so pressing that all else palls. I may not dally." And as he spoke the word "pressing" he gave her buttock a good hard pinch, so that she jumped involuntarily, and withdrew.

  "Beautiful!" the Ambassador said. "You are a born diplomat!"

  No, Flint thought. No diplomat. He merely liked to make his own decisions, to seduce rather than be seduced. The more someone pushed him, the more he went his own way. As the bastard speaking in his skull might find out in due course. The Ambassador was taking entirely too much interest.

  The girl could make no serious objection. She was loyal to her Queen—perhaps a direct agent doing the Queen's specific bidding. Flint had learned on the slave world of Sphere Canopus not to confuse the relation between master and servant. People who failed the Queen could lose their heads. Probably nothing that went on in this palace was hidden from the monarch. This place was like a giant spider web (one of Sol system's more intriguing phenomena), and woe betide the visiting fly who misstepped.

  They came sedately to the entrance of the main hall. "Now you must wait for the herald," Delle explained. "Then walk slowly up and make obeisance to the Queen."

  "That's right," the Ambassador said. "I will guide you. After that formality, you should have no trouble. Once the liquor starts flowing, just about anything goes."

  Flint clicked his teeth once in acknowledgment. Maybe then the Amb
assador would kindly take a nap and leave Flint to his own devices. He needed no advice in handling liquor, food, and pretty girls.

  "His Excellency Lord Pimpernel, Envoy Extraordinary of System Sheriton, realm of the Ram," the herald announced. A rather pudgy little man with spotty skin minced up and made a deep bow to the Queen, who was out of the line of Flint's vision.

  "The Lord High Poopdoodle of Pollux, Most Gracious Tzar of the Twins, Gentleman of Gemini." And a tall, thin, old man marched out, almost stumbling over his hanging sword, while Flint stifled a laugh. Poopdoodle of Pollux? It sounded like dragon refuse.

  But the next introduction was even worse. "The Regent of the Fabled Green Planet, Scion of Star Etamin, Conqueror of the Dragon, Flint of Outworld!" the herald bawled.

  Flint stood still, stunned by the audacity of the fanciful credits he had been assigned. Outworld had no Regent, and he had no authority even in his local tribe, let alone his planet. Were they trying to mock him?

  "Get in there!" the skull-voice cried. "All their titles are ludicrous. Popdod of Pollux is just an ambassador, same as me. He didn't balk!"

  So Popdod had become Poopdoodle. The Ambassador was right: Flint had nothing to complain about.

  He marched in. Now he saw the Queen, standing before her throne. She was short and blue, but impressive in padded sleeves and farthingale hoops that made her skirt even more like a barrel than that of Delle's. The material of her dress was thick and quilted, with golden thread and bright jewels at every interstice. She wore several necklaces of jewels that hung halfway down her body, reaching out to the edge of the vertical skirt. On either side of her neck were huge ruffs and wire frames extending the lines of her head out a foot or more. She wore an obvious wig pinned to her scalp, but still looked almost bald beneath it Her crown perched at the top like the spire of a church. In her right hand she held the scepter of power.

  "Bow," the voice said urgently. "Slow and deep."

  Flint faced Queen Bess and bowed.

  "Well, it has manners after all," the Queen said. Her voice was harsh and somewhat scratchy. She was a robust woman, not young but not yet old, with makeup caked on her face so that it looked like a fright mask. Flint suspected that her body under the elaborate dress did resemble the outer configuration: bloated into the shape of a hogshead of strong liquor. Maybe that was why she had set this style: to cover her defects, and make all others cover their assets.

  "She's the spitting image of the original Elizabeth of England, you know," the Ambassador remarked. "She uses the caked makeup deliberately, because that's the way the original did it; underneath she's actually a somewhat younger woman. Like Elizabeth, Bess is tough and smart. No coincidence, of course; she's studied history. Don't forget that for one instant. Wish her happy birthday, but don't mention her age."

  Small chance; Flint didn't know her age, and the Ambassador had warned him about this before. But she was obviously older than the average Outworld tribeswoman. "Planet Outworld bids you an enjoyable birthday, gracious Queen."

  "The whole planet!" she exclaimed, chuckling mannishly. "We welcome the emissary of the Dragon."

  "Now back off," the Ambassador said. "There are others to be introduced, but you're home free. Queen Bess has accepted you."

  Flint backed off. So far so good; if this were the worst of it, he would have an easy evening. The smell of the feast was already circulating through the room, and he saw barrels of liquor being set up in a corner. He was hungry and thirsty, and he might even get a chance to go out and look at the stars at greater leisure. That was one thing about having a party at night: the stars were out.

  He bumped into someone. A young man was standing in his way, a man who hadn't been there a moment ago. He wore brown tights with a padded codpiece, a brilliant red cape, and a supercilious sneer. "I beg your pardon," the youth said loudly. "I was not aware of your optical infirmity. Stupid of me not to realize that anyone as green as you could not be in the best of health."

  "He's baiting you," the Ambassador advised. "Ignore him. The court's full of young dandies on the prowl for trouble."

  "Green is my natural color," Flint said mildly. "It has to do with the radiation of my star and the atmosphere of my planet, as most people know. My vision is satisfactory—but the eyes of my head were on the Queen, and I do not possess eyes elsewhere."

  "Are you suggesting that I do?" the dandy demanded, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. He seemed more than willing to be insulted. "I, Lord Boromo of the Chariot?"

  "Ignore him," the voice in the skull repeated. "I recognize the name. He's a notorious troublemaker, but an expert swordsman, as these things go. He's killed several innocent men, but if he draws in the presence of the Queen, he insults her, and his head will roll. And don't you draw!"

  Flint turned away from the young man, though he would rather have bashed him. But Boromo would not let it drop. "Only a complete barbarian stumbles into his betters and lacks the wit to apologize."

  "Agreed," Flint said, moving on. There was a ripple of laughter through the hall. There had been more than casual interest in the encounter.

  "Boromo must be jealous of you," the Ambassador said. "He was trying to provoke you into a duel, so he could kill you, or at least humiliate you, and win favor for himself. Politics is like that, here. You handled it well, reversing the insult—but I had not anticipated this. Perhaps you'd better excuse yourself and return to the embassy."

  "When the party's just beginning?" Flint demanded. And let the young punk have the satisfaction of putting me to flight? he added mentally "I'm enjoying myself." And he drifted toward the liquor.

  From behind a drape an orchestra starting playing. The fancy courtiers began to dance with the hoopskirted girls. The movements were measured and stately, stylized like the courtship ritual of certain animals. The barreled skirts began to sway, then swing like great bells, in time to the music, while hinting at enticingly shapely derrières beneath them. There was, Flint realized, some point in this complicated clothing; proper suggestion had a refined sex appeal that could build to a higher peak than mere exposure. Honeybloom, back on Outworld, was lovely in her nakedness—but she lacked the artful challenge of these boxed beauties.

  Delle glided up. "Do you care to ask me to dance, handsome envoy of the Dragon?" she inquired pertly.

  Flint had no notion how to do this dance, suspecting he would make a fool of himself if he tried it. But he thought it inexpedient to advertise this. "I prefer to watch," he said.

  She made a moue. "Sir, you humiliate me."

  Another dandy came up, as brightly and tastelessly clad as the first. "Do you have the audacity to insult a lady?" he demanded.

  "That depends on the lady," Flint replied.

  The dandy swelled up. "This insolence cannot be tolerated!"

  "Why not?" Flint asked.

  The first dandy, Boromo, approached. "The animal lacks the wit to take umbrage."

  "A prick of the sword could be the cure of that," the other said. A glance of understanding passed between them.

  Delle faced Flint angrily. "Are you going to let them talk about you like that?"

  Flint affected surprise. "I thought they were addressing each other."

  There was another ripple of laughter in the hall. Both dandies glowered, their hands going to the hilts of their swords in an obviously well-rehearsed gesture.

  "Ho! What is this?" the Queen demanded, sailing forward majestically.

  "Oh oh," the Ambassador said. "Bess is in on it too, and the maid. They must know what you are, Kirlian and all."

  Flint agreed. It did look like trouble. There had been too many little episodes. Suppose these people, antiscience as they were, opposed the formation of the galactic coalition? They could strike a real blow for their dubious cause by eliminating him. But still they dared not do it openly, lest a twenty-fourth-century battleship be dispatched from the nearest Imperial space armory. One barrage from such a ship could put this planet back into the
Dark Ages, literally. So they had to be at least somewhat subtle.

  He had walked into a nest of vipers. Still he had certain assets. One was the putative battleship; another was the Ambassador in his skull; then there was his own ingenuity. A bit of bold initiative might work. It really wasn't worse than being a transferee in an alien Sphere!

  "This oaf insults Your Majesty," Lord Boromo said.

  Flint made a little bow to the Queen. "I fear there has been a misunderstanding, Queen Bess. I proffered no insult."

  "And now he calls me a liar!" the dandy exclaimed theatrically. "I call these assembled to witness...."

  And the others would back the dandy up, of course, completing the frameup. They were only waiting to see which way the Queen wanted it.

  "I'm sending an Imperial Guard to get you out of there!" the Ambassador said. "But it will take a few minutes. Stall them if you can. Whatever you do, don't draw! Then we'd have no case at all."

  The Queen faced Flint, and he saw the calculating glint in her eyes. She had not quite decided what she could risk. "I had not supposed the Dragon would send a minion to disrupt our party," she said.

  Flint had had enough of this mousetrapping. "Even the Dragon can at last become annoyed at the yapping of curs."

  Queen Bess's mouth dropped open. Both dandies drew their swords partway from their belts. "Lese majesty!" they cried together. "Give us permission—!"

  The Queen nodded almost imperceptibly. The swords moved up to clear the belts—and Flint acted.

  He backhanded Lord Boromo across the face, his knuckles making hard contact with the bone of the jaw. The man went down as if clubbed—as well he might have been, for the barbarian fist, augmented by Sphere Sol karate training, was like a club, capable of breaking bones. Then Flint caught hold of the emerging sword of the second dandy. Because the weapon had no edge, he suffered no cut on his fingers. He brought it up, twisted it easily from the man's grip, put both hands on the metal, and flexed his muscles in one violent spasm. The sword snapped in half. Flint then kneed the man in the bulging codpiece and let him fall. He threw away the two parts of the sword.