s gaze and stretched his
neck uncomfortably. Vyrtl was unaccustomed to looking up at anything
or anybody. "They will bear our mark."

"It will teach them the lesson they deserve," agreed Wilkins
dutifully. "Autonomy, indeed!"

"Quite," said Vyrtl, urging his lozard forward. "Who are those fools
to think they can demand exemption from established imperial laws ...
they should be satisfied with the standard textbooks and forget their
puttering! Ha--what's this?"

He pulled up before a small replica of the palace.

"The dome engineer built it for your wives, Sire."

"Our wives?"

"Twenty of them volunteered to share the rigors of the campaign. Their
special transport arrived just before us."

"Humph!" grunted Vyrtl, riding past.

* * * * *

Early the next morning, after the engineers had arranged a dawn for
his benefit, Vyrtl called a council of his commanders. Chief-of-Staff
Robert Tzyfol reported on the situation.

The rebellious Jursans were sending a representative to ask for terms.
In the Marshal's strongly expressed opinion, no leniency was
necessary. The imperial fleets were slowly but surely stamping out all
resistance, making Jursa unlivable.

"Abject submission is their only course," he declared.

It was the sort of declaration with which Vyrtl might have agreed, had
he been able to voice it first.

As it was, he announced that he would keep it in mind when judging the
fate of the rebels. He had no inclination to destroy a perfectly good,
tax-paying planet if he could whip its inhabitants into line by other
means.

He ended the conference by stating his intention to ride in the
artificial forest. He enjoyed the glances of relief among the
generals--especially the older and more brittle ones--when he gave
them leave to resume their military duties instead of attending him.

A few hours later, Wilkins found Vyrtl and a small retinue resting
beside a pool at the edge of the forest.

"The rebel envoy has arrived, Sire," he reported.

Vyrtl kicked a pebble into the pool and spat after it. "We shall see
him immediately," he announced. "No use wasting ceremony on the
villain."

Returning to the palace, he strode into the audience chamber and
signaled for the envoy to be admitted. Still warm from his ride and
insultingly disheveled, he sat in the imitation of the great throne on
his capital planet, Hebryxid.

"If he isn't brisk," he muttered to Wilkins, "we may tea