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“We don’t forbid the ilfs to go off-planet,” Spano proclaimed. “That would be tyrannical. We simply don’t allow them passage in our spaceships. Since they don’t have any of their own, they can’t leave.”

“Then you’re afraid the Damorlanti will develop space travel on their own,” Clarey cried. “Superior race—seeking after knowledge—spread their wings and soar to the stars.” He flapped his arms and fell off the stool.

“Really, Steff,” Han said, motioning for the servo-mechanism to pick Clarey up, “this is no way to conduct an interview.”

“I am a creative artist,” the general said thickly. “I believe in suiting the interview to the occasion. Clarey understands, for he, too, is an artist.” The general sneezed and rubbed his nose with his silver sleeve. “Listen to me, boy. The Damorlanti are a fine, creative, productive race. It isn’t generally known, but they developed the op fastener for evening wear, two of the new scents on the roster come from Damorlan, and the snettis is an adaptation of a Damorlant original. Would you want a species as artistic as that to be annihilated by an epidemic?”