"How did it go?" he asked, leaning back more comfortably when his aide had removed the heavy robe. "You were most generous, Sire, or so I thought." "It is a virtue that requires a public display now and then, to strengthen the roots of the myth that grows from it. Too bad old Tzyfol failed to see that. Why do you suppose he tried to be obstinate?" "I expect, Sire, he disliked having an old woman seem to get the better of him after he had won the military victory." Vyrtl laughed indulgently and sipped his wine. "Even Tzyfol," added Wilkins, "might have been generous had she been young and pretty. Unfortunately, I suppose, it takes an old head to be an envoy." The Emperor set his glass down very carefully. "What did you say?" he demanded evenly. Wilkins stared, with the expression of a man who fears he may suddenly recall having used an obscene word in polite company, or having bragged falsely and unwittingly of tax-evasion to an imperial collector. Vyrtl repeated his question in a tone a note higher. "I-I-I said that if she were young and p-pretty--" "How old do you think she was?" rasped Vyrtl. "About s-s-seventy. Maybe seventy-five." "_What?_" He surged to his feet, overturning the table. Immediately the glass doors opening on the balcony were flung back with a splintering crash. Four gleaming guardsmen charged out with drawn weapons, each obviously aching to become a hero. Wilkins prudently stood rooted, peering at them from the corner of his eye. Vyrtl recovered his poise with an effort. "As you were!" he ordered. "Help General Wilkins pick up the table I knocked over. Clumsy thing!" It was done, and the guard captain apologized for the doors. "Relax, Wilkins," said Vyrtl when they were again alone. "It just occurred to me that I ought to have another word with that woman. Have someone get hold of her at once!" He left the disordered balcony and waited in a nearby library. The books lining the walls were real, he noticed idly--another painstaking point by the designer of the palace. There Wilkins found him presently, to report that the Jursan envoy was already on her way back to that planet. "I called the landing field guard," he explained, "but she had already taken off. His spotters swept space for them and got a curve on the ship." "Of course," mused Vyrtl. "The treaty has been broadcast." "Shall I have the patrols close in on her rocket?" "No." The Emperor pondered a moment. "Have a telescreen set up in here so we can speak directly." A frenzied bustle ensued as Wilkins directed a platoon of awed techs through the process of bringing the mountain to Mohammed. In the end, the Jursan ship was in communication. The aide called for Daphne Foster, then stood aside. Vyrtl was glad, when she appeared, that Wilkins had placed a deep armchair before the screen for him. Was _this_ the woman with whom he had--? * * * * *