"Good. I won't use it unless forced to. This may be that 'first contact' the world has been expecting."

"Cap'n Zebbie, why would aliens disguise themselves when they outnumber us? I think they are human."

"I hope you're right. Copilot, should I open the door? Advice, please."

"Captain, you can open the door anytime. But if it is open, it takes a few seconds to close it and the ship won't lift with a door open."

"Too right. Gay Deceiver."

"Hi, Boss. Where did you pick up the tarts?"

"Gay, check and report."

"All circuits checked, all systems go, juice point seven-eight-and I'm in the mood."

"Cast loose L-gun. Prepare to burn."

"Done!"

"Captain," my husband said worriedly, "are you planning to blast them?"

"I hope not. I'd rather run than fight. I'd rather stay and get help than either. But they grounded where I can burn them-using offset."

"Captain, don't do it!"

"Copilot, I don't plan to. Now drop it!"

The grounded flappy bird was about two hundred meters and a few degrees left of dead ahead. Two men-they looked like men-had disembarked and headed toward us. They were dressed alike-uniforms? They seemed vaguely familiar-but all uniforms seem vaguely familiar, do they not?

They were less than a hundred meters from us. Cap'n Zebbie did something at his instrument board and suddenly their voices were inside, blastingly loud. He adjusted the setting and we could hear clearly. Zebbie said, "That's Russian! Isn't it, Jake?"

"Captain, I think so. A Slavic language, in any case." Jacob added, "Do you understand it?"

'Me? Jake, I said that I can swear in Russian; I didn't say I could speak it. I can say 'thank you' and 'please' and 'da' and 'nyet'-maybe six more. How about you?"

"I can puzzle out a paper about mathematics with the aid of a dictionary. But speak it? Understand it? No."

I tried to remember whether or not I had ever told Zebbie that I know Russian. My husband and Deety I had not told. Well, if Zebbie knew, he would call on me. It is not something I mention as it does not fit my persona. I started it out of curiosity; I wanted to read those great Russian novelists-Dostoievsky, Tolstoy, and so forth-in the original in order to find out why they were so celebrated. Why I had never been able to read one of those classic novels all the way through? (They had cured me of sleeping pills.)

So I set out to learn Russian. Soon I was wearing earphones to bed, listening to Russian in my sleep, working with a tutor in the daytime. I never mastered a good accent; those six-consonants-in-a-row words tie knots in my tongue. But one cannot read a language easily unless one can "hear" the words. So I learned the spoken language along with the written.

(Oh, yes, those "classic novels": Having invested so much effort I carried out my purpose: War and Peace, The Idiot, The Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina, and so forth. Would you believe it? Something is gained in translation; the originals are even more depressing and soporific than translations. I'm not sure what purpose Russian fiction has, but it can't be entertainment.)

I decided to wait. I was not eager to be interpreter and it would not be necessary if it turned out that Zebbie or Jacob had a language in common with our visitors-and I rationalized my decision by telling myself that it might turn out to be an advantage if the strangers thought that no one of us understood Russian.

(At that point I realized that I had been thinking in Russian. It's a wonderful language for paranoid thoughts.)

When Zebbie switched on the outside mikes, the older was telling the Younger: "-not let Fyodor Ivanovitch get wind of such thoughts, Yevgeny. He

does not believe that (no good? stupid?) Britishers can excel us in anything. So don't refer to that curious craft as 'advanced engineering.' A 'weird assemblage of poorly organized experiments' would be better."

"I will remember. Shall I loosen my holster and take off the safety? To guard you, sir?"

The older man laughed. "You haven't dealt with the damned British as long as I have. Never let them suspect that you are even mildly nervous. And always be sure to insult him first. Bear in mind that the lowliest serf in Ykraina is better than their so-called King-Emperor. That serf-"

-when Zebbie interrupted: T4rrêtez-là!"

The younger hesitated but the older never broke stride. Instead he answered in French: "You are telling me to halt, you British swine? An officer of the Tsar on Russian soil! I spit on your mother. And your father if your mother can remember who he was. Why are you speaking French, you soiled British spy? You fool no one. Speak Russian-or, if you are uncultured, speak English."

Zebbie thumbed a button. "What about it, Jake? Switch to English when he's so hipped on the subject of Englishmen? Or bull it through in French? My accent is better than his."

"Maybe you can get away with it, Captain. I can't."

Zebbie nodded and opened the mike, spoke in English: "We are not British, not spies. We are American tourists and-"

"American'? What nonsense is this?" (He had shifted to English.) "A British colonial is still British-and a spy."

My husband reached over, shut off the microphone. "Captain, I advise lifting. He won't listen to reason."

"Copilot, not till I must. We don't even have enough water. I must try to parley." Zebbie thumbed the switch. "I am not a British colonial. I am Zeb Carter of California, a citizen of the United States of America; I have my passport. If we have trespassed, we regret it and apologize."

"Spy, that is the most bold-faced bluff I have ever heard. There is no such country as the United States of America. I am placing you under arrest. In the name of His Imperial Majesty the Tsar of All the Russias, by authority delegated to me by His Viceroy for New Russia Grand Duke Fyodor Ivanovitch Romanov, I arrest you and your party for the crime of espionage. Open up!"

By now they had reached Gay Deceiver and were at the portside door.

Zebbie answered, "You haven't told me your name, much less identified yourself as a Russian officer. Or shown any authority over what is clearly unoccupied land."

"What? Preposterous! I am Colonel the Count Morinosky of Novy Kiev, of the Viceroy's Imperial Guard. As for my authority, look at the sky around you!" The self-proclaimed colonel drew his pistol, reversed it, and used the butt to pound on the door. "Open up!' I said."

Zebbie has good temper and calm judgment. Both are likely to slip if anyone abuses Gay Deceiver.

He said softly, "Colonel, your craft on the ground ahead-is there anyone in it?"

"Eh? Of course not. It's a two-seater, as anyone can see. My private scoutabout. Never mind that. Keep quiet and open up."

Zebbie again switched off his microphone. "Gay Deceiver, at command 'Execute' burn one tenth of a second at point of aim, intensity four."

"Gotcha, Boss."

"Colonel, how can you take four prisoners in a two-seater?"

"Simple. You and I will ride in your vehicle. The other members of your party will be hostage for your good behavior and will ride where assigned. You won't see which craft lest you get foolish ideas. My pilot will fly my craft."

"Execute."

The grounded ornithopter began to burn fiercely-but the colonel did not see it. We saw it-but he was looking at Zebbie. Zebbie said, "Colonel, please stand clear of the door so that I can open it."

"Oh. Very well."

"Colonel! Look!" The younger officer, in stepping back, caught sight of the fire-and I have rarely heard such anguish.

Or, an instant later in the colonel's face, such astonishment switching to rage. He attempted to shoot Zebbie-with his hand still gripping the barrel of his pistol. In a moment he realized what he was doing and flipped it to catch it by the grip.