That made him think. Unless the Traiti were a lot more fragile psychologically than any human thought, such concern with amenities on a warship was out of character. They might be more alien than other evidence indicated--or a lot more aesthetic. He couldn't believe they were all that fragile psychologically, and his current close contact was showing less, rather than more, underlying alienness. That left the last possibility, that these ferocious fighters were also artists. If there were any parallels at all with Terra, that could be true. History showed plenty of military men, on any side in any war, who had expressed themselves through art. Tarlac could think of several offhand, just from the last World War: Hirohito, poet; Mauldin, cartoonist; Eisenhower and Churchill, both painters; and Hitler, architect. It seemed plausible that art was as important here in everyday surroundings as it seemed; he would use that as a working hypothesis unless he found evidence to the contrary. Then there were the few hints he had about family life. It was important, that was obvious, and he couldn't help speculating, despite almost total lack of data, on what it was like. There was strong clan structure, yes, but "clan" covered a lot of territory. With the low proportion of women and the touchiness about parenthood, the setup might be like the old Arabian sheikdoms, with women belonging to the dominant males and kept in a kind of protective custody, used as breeding machines. He didn't like that picture, though he knew a lot of human men would find it an attractive fantasy. Still, under the circumstances, it seemed like a reasonable assumption. Then he rolled over, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, as his thoughts went back to his earlier misgivings. Dammit, he didn't want to brood about that! Sure, bringing peace would be worth his life; plenty of others had paid that price, without the half-promise he had. He'd have to follow them into final nothingness eventually, and he'd go without protest if he knew it would mean the end of this ten-year slaughter--but it wouldn't. He couldn't die, not if he was to bring peace. He had to live, to survive an Ordeal that sometimes killed beings as tenacious of life as the sharks they resembled. It helped, knowing that they wanted him to succeed--and why shouldn't they? It was their race's survival that was at stake, not humanity's. If it was possible, he promised himself, he'd do it. He had a brief vision of himself at a Grand Audience afterward, approaching the Emperor accompanied by several shadowy Traiti. He was in full formal uniform, his dress cloak brushing the carpet--but his shirt was open, neatly arranged to show the four scars down his chest, and he let himself smile at the image. Wouldn't the newsies and protocol perfectionists be upset!