he died.

Tynia buried her face in her hands. Briggan put his arm around her. In the flickering light, Tchassen saw the Sergeant grin.

"You didn't have to kill him, Captain," Tynia whispered.

"After what you told me—"

"Don't blame me; I didn't do anything!"

"He was going to fire at us, wasn't he?"

"You don't know that for sure. Maybe he was asking for help!"

Tchassen shrugged; there was no accounting for the emotional inconsistencies of a woman.

"What did you expect to prove by murdering Drein?" Briggan asked.

"I saved us from—"

"If he was an Earthman, why were the bandits firing at him? Why had they wounded him?"

"To make it look good," Tchassen replied, no longer really believing it himself. "They wanted our weapons; they have to use trickery to get them away from us."

Tchassen slid the weapon out of Drein's lifeless fingers and half-heartedly searched the street for Tynia's dispersal ray. He didn't expect to find it. The Earth people had it now. The loss of the weapon was, in one sense, more serious than the destruction of the Nevada station. A prison compound could be rebuilt and restaffed. But if the Earth ever faced the conqueror with equal firepower, Earthmen would recapture their world—and more.

We've failed; we have no right to be here—the Captain fought a burning nausea as the fear washed over his mind. What had they accomplished by the occupation? The Earth was neither enslaved nor destroyed. Hatred made the natives savages. They would never be content until they had revenge. They never conceded defeat; they never would. Corporal Drein seemed to be typical of their fanaticism, and that was why Tchassen had killed him—that, and the hysterical story Tynia had told. On calmer reflection, Tchassen knew he had no proof of Drein's disloyalty—which meant 

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