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 teach him promptness by hunting him through the forest tomorrow." Above the whispers of hastily assembled officers, courtiers, and a few of Vyrtl's wives, a chamberlain announced, "The Jursan envoy, Daphne Foster." "A woman?" murmured Vyrtl. "So it seems. She looks quite ... distinguished." "Ha! The witty Wilkins! A pretty choice of words." The woman approached the throne amid a low buzz from Vyrtl's attendants, and bowed gracefully. Gracefully but not too abjectly, considering the situation and his own position, Vyrtl thought. She raised her head and endured his deliberate scrutiny. She _would_ have to be a rebel, Vyrtl told himself. He supposed they had scoured all Jursa for a real beauty to dazzle him; but they would discover that it would not work. At first glance, she had seemed slim, but he saw now that, though tall, she was very well proportioned. A net of tiny, glittering jewels was woven into the black hair that hung to her shoulders. Her features were regular, but expressively alive compared to the artificial placidity of the court beauties. But what disturbed the Emperor of Pollux most was the way she looked at him! He felt that it was stretching diplomacy a bit far. A smile in deep blue eyes was pleasant, when someone was sufficiently accomplished to muster it in his presence; but this was a shade too familiar. She seemed to put herself on a level with him--as if to share an amusement beyond the others present. The next moment, he was trying to decide just what quality made hers the most beautiful female voice he had ever heard. Consequently, he missed most of the formula about "the gratitude of all Jursa" at his receiving "his humble slave." * * * * *