The soldier acting as a decoy for Lieutenant Maartens' plan to lure out the Palatinian sniper returned a few hours after he left. He had successfully drawn out the sniper and though he heard several shots exchanged, he was unable to account for either the sniper or Lieutenant Maartens. A scouting party was then dispatched to reconnoiter the area as far as the target location and establish a temporary camp. After several hours without incident, Centurion Tofels ordered a larger party to the site, led by Lieutenant Crestoa.

Their mission was to identify the target, detain any survivors and salvage anything of military and intelligence value. They had been at the site for nearly a day and were no closer to fulfilling Item One on that list, to say nothing of the other objectives. He had only been briefed on the barest of details. It was an unidentified flying object picked up on radar as it was passing through Byrandian airspace. Obviously the Palatinians picked it up too or else they wouldn't be here. Unless it was one of theirs, but it was so unlike any airship that had ever been designed that it seemed impossible. There was nothing else like this anywhere, not that Crestoa knew of.

Some of the dumb apes of the Blackamoors wanted to start cutting right away, but Lieutenant Crestoa was having none of that. There was no telling what might happen if they just started trying to take pieces off of the thing. He had his people make careful observations of the craft from a distance in a phased approach. It was nearly dark by the time he let anyone get close enough to touch it and even then they had to use a three-meter pole.

There didn't seem to be any doors or portholes. Because it was embedded in the ground at an angle, you could see part of the ventral side. There was a ring of circles, each circle about four meters in diameter. Perhaps that was the propulsion system, some sort of rocket engine. No one could possibly have built a ship of this size powered by rocket engines, though. No one on this world at any rate.

It had only been a couple hours since sunup and the Blackamoors were badgering him to take more active measures to move the mission forward. They even brought in Maniple Chief Forcas, the second ranking Blackamoor next to Tofels, to push the Centurion's orders.

If he had any principles at all, Lieutenant Crestoa would have stood up for the safety of the men. He would have told that Blackamoor to go to hell and to take Centurion Tofels with him. That was what he should have said, but those weren't the words that came out of his mouth.

Forcas grinned.

Lieutenant Crestoa nodded. He was ashamed of himself for his cowardice, but it was too late to take it back now. He would look foolish for it. It was bad enough being a coward. He didn't want to be a coward and a fool both.

Forcas raised his hand and shouted, "I want men with torches working on that hull and riflemen covering them!"

Four men with cutting torches and four Blackamoors with rifles headed out to the flying saucer. If anything was going to happen, they'd learn the hard way. Who knew what the consequences would be? However, the consequences of doing nothing was all to clear. Those Blackamoors with the rifles were there as much to keep the men with the torches going forward as it was to protect them from whatever might be waiting inside.

This seemed to quicken pace of the men with the torches. Nothing like an appeal to greed to get people moving. Fear and greed. Take away those two and what human motivation was left?

Before they could reach the ship, though, there was a loud pneumatic hiss that stopped them dead in their tracks. Lieutenant Crestoa couldn't really see what was happening from where he was standing, but his feet were firmly planted where he stood. The hiss gave way to the sound of rushing air like a breath. The ship had come alive.

Did this mean whoever—or whatever—was inside the ship was coming out? Crestoa braced himself for some terrible creature with tentacles or antennae or a hundred eyes. They should've had some great statesman or scientist there, someone to represent the very best of Byrandia for first contact. Instead it was just him, a lowly Naval officer, several black-faced goons, and a ragtag assortment of civilian contractors. What kind of impression was this going to make?

Something touched down on the ground. This was it.

The Blackamoors snapped out of their momentary astonishment and raised their rifles.

Before Forcas could say anything to them, Lieutenant Crestoa shouted, "Don't shoot! Hold your fire!"

Surprisingly, a voice replied, "Yeah, hold your damn fire."

The voice spoke Franca. In fact, it was terribly familiar. And then the extraterrestrial visitor showed itself. It was the last thing Crestoa expected.

There he was. Out of contact for nearly two days and looking like nothing had happened. His rifle was slung on his shoulder and he had his hands up lest he make one of the trigger-happy Blackamoors nervous.

Root didn't say anything to Forcas on the way back to the Junker Jorg. What he had to say needed to go straight to the top. A quiet trip wasn't without its drawbacks, though. Even with the fate of the world hanging in the balance, he couldn't help but think about Azuki. That was no way for a girl like her to go out. She deserved better.

Forcas had a Blackamoor radioman with him to contact the Junker Jorg so they would lower the loading ramp for them when they arrived. Waiting for them was Tofels flanked by a squad of Blackamoors. How was Root going to convince him to call things off? He'd have to figure something out as he went.

He and Forcas dismounted from the jeep and made their way to Tofels. Forcas gave the Blackamoors' stiff-armed salute, which Tofels returned.

Tofels didn't respond to him. His attention was on Root.

Annoyed, Tofels asked, "Then where the hell have you been?"

Tofels scoffed, "What, are you trying to say the target is some sort of alien spacecraft?"

Root nodded.

Root never did have much patience for the way Tofels treated him and after everything that had happened, that patience was even less, but he still needed to try for diplomacy.

Pulling back his sleeve, Root said, "Look at my arm. Faustman had it all chewed ta shit an' now there ain't a mark on me."

Root meant to be diplomatic, but something inside him snapped.

Root thought he'd just thrown away his scope after Faustman wrecked it, but somehow it was in the pocket of his parka. He noticed it on the way over and it was about the best proof he had.

In his anger, Root didn't realize that he was only providing evidence of his encounter with Faustman and not really supporting his claim that the UFO was from another planet. That was the sort of thing Tofels would point out, but instead he simply said in a level voice, "Stand down, Lieutenant."

Root couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to.

With Root working himself into such a frenzy, it was disconcerting how calm Tofels remained.

He wasn't really saying any of this to anyone in particular, but then he said to his men, "Disarm and detain the Lieutenant, then confine him to the brig."

As four Blackamoors broke off to come at him, Root drew his Barkley. He had never had the opportunity to reload it since the fight with Faustman, but they didn't know that. However, the Blackamoors were all armed with Model 275 automatics. Even if his Barkley was loaded, he didn't stand a chance.

Tofels held up a hand to keep his men from gunning down Root right there.

What was he supposed to do? He couldn't let them cart him off to the brig and he couldn't let them shoot him either. All life on the planet was riding on his shoulders and he had no idea what he could do to turn things around.

Then something hard hit him on the back of the head. He forgot about Forcas being just a step or two behind him. One of the Blackamoors tackled him to the deck. Another kicked his Barkley out of his hand, while a third wrestled with his arms to put him in handcuffs.

Though reeling from the blow to the head, Root was seized with panic at the thought of what his failure would cost everyone and started shouting, "No! Ya gotta listen ta me! Ya gotta pull 'em out! Jus' leave 'em alone an' they won't kill us!"

The Blackamoor who tackled him continued to hold him down while he struggled against him. Tofels stepped forward and looked down on him.

Tofels grinned and said, "Nothing will happen to them if they're come along peaceably and are willing to cooperate. They could be of great service to Queen and country."

Of course, no one was listening to Root. Or were they?

It was Captain Saxon. He was wearing a pistol belt, armed for the occasion.

The Captain had seven sailors with them and while he had not drawn his pistol, theirs were at the ready. Two of the four Blackamoors who went to detain Root as well Forcas already had their pistols drawn, but before any of the others could go for their weapons, one of sailors said harshly, "Don't even think about it, Blackamoor."

Tofels, who had been so calm dealing with Root, completely lost his composure by this turn events.

Unfazed, Captain Saxon replied, "And the Grand Dux will have a lot of explaining to do."

Captain Saxon nodded to one of the more senior sailors accompanying him.

The sailor—implausibly called 'Sir Laurence' even though he was an enlisted man—pulled out a golden emblem from under his shirt. Even from where he was pinned to the deck and half out of his mind, Root recognized it as none other than the royal seal.

Root didn't have any experience with royalty before, but if he recalled correctly, the correct protocol was to salute if in military uniform or to bow if in civilian dress. He wasn't sure under what circumstances you were supposed to kneel, but when it was demanded of you by someone acting on behalf of the Queen's brother, it seemed as good a time as any. The Blackamoor holding down Root hastily got off to kneel and rather than just lie there, Root got up so he could take a knee as well.

The words were strained and came with great difficulty. Tofels just couldn't believe what was happening. Root couldn't believe it much himself, but after everything else, the brother of the Queen travelling incognito as part of the crew wasn't the strangest thing he had seen.

To answer Tofels, Captain Saxon—or rather, Prince Jeancharles—said, "Why what? Why am I here? The Blackamoors may be good at intimidating the common folk, but they're not good at keeping secrets. When I learned of the unidentified flying object and the secret mission to investigate it, I had it arranged so that my associates and I were included in the crew. I knew we were on the verge of a major international incident and I couldn't very well leave the situation in the hands of mere thugs like you. It would seem that I underestimated the scale of the problem, though."

The Prince then walked over to Root and said, "Lieutenant, rise."

The Blackamoor fumbled with the keys as he unlocked the handcuffs. Once they were off, the Prince motioned for the Blackamoor to get back down on his knees.

With that taken care of, Prince Jeancharles continued, "Now, Lieutenant, would it be possible for me to meet these... visitors?"

No doubt because he was addressing royalty, Root's speech was sharpening up, actually showing his university education, as opposed to the plebeian dialect he tended to use around fellow commoners. If Prince Jeancharles noticed it, he didn't draw any attention to it.

The Prince smiled and rested his heavy hand on Root's shoulder.

Tofels was not finished yet, though.

Prince Jeancharles shook his head.

The Prince then motioned for his people to line up the Blackamoors to march them to the brig. Tofels couldn't resist a parting shot.

The Prince sighed once more as the Blackamoors were escorted out of the motorpool.