Official banquets are notoriously dull affairs, and the present celebration was no different. That the Luna-based invaders had capitulated on hearing of the disaster at home, that a democratic government with U.N. membership had been set up for a permanently disarmed Jupiter, and that the stars were open to mankind, seemed to call forth only bigger and better platitudes. Ray Ballantyne, drowsy with food and cocktails, nearly snowblind with white tablecloth, would have fallen asleep except for the fact that his shoes pinched him. So he listened with some surprise to the president of his alma mater telling what an outstanding student he had been. As a matter of fact, he recalled, he'd damn near been expelled. Urushkidan, crammed into a Martian-designed tuxedo, smoked a thoughtful pipe at his right and made calculations on the tablecloth. Dyann Korlas, her shining hair braided around a stolen Jovian tiara, looked stunning in a low-cut evening gown on his left. The dagger at her waist was to set a new fashion on Earth, but there had been some confusion when she insisted on having Ormun the Terrible placed in front of her and grace said to the idol. Oh, well. "--and this dauntless genius of science, whom his university is pleased to honor with a doctorate of law--" She leaned over and whispered in his ear--it could only be heard for three yards around--"Ray, vat vill you do now?" "I dunno," he murmured back. "I want to get a patent on that damn interstellar drive before Urushkidan does, but after that--well--" "It vas a lot of fun vile it lasted, vasn't it?" Dyann's smile was wistful. "But I have been thinking, Ray. I am goin' back to Varann and carve me out a throne. You--vell, Ray, you are too fine and beautiful for such rough vork. You belon here, in the glamor and bright lights, not out vith a lot of coarse unruly vomen who might hurt you." "You know," he said, "I think you've got something there." "I vill alvays remember you," she said sentimentally. "Maybe some day ven ve are old, ve can meet again and bore the youth vith talk of our great days." She looked around. "If only ve could sneak out of here now and have a farevell party of our own--I know a bar--" "Hmmm." Ray stroked his chin. "This calls for tactics. If we could sort of slump down in our chairs, as if we were tired--and Lord, I am!--and gradually sink out of sight, we could crawl under the table and through that door--" As he crept from the hall, Ray heard Urushkidan, called on for a speech, begin the detailed exposition of his latest theory. End of Project Gutenberg's Captive of the Centaurianess, by Poul Anderson