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“By the way,” said Clarey, “the X-T boys made a few mistakes. The bugg isn’t an insect; it’s a bird. And the lule isn’t a bird; it’s a flower. And the paparun isn’t a flower; it’s an insect.”

“Oh, well, I guess they’ll be able to straighten that out,” the colonel said, licking crumbs from his thick fingers. “We do our jobs and they do theirs.” He reached for another pastry.

“Take good care of the bugg,” Clarey said. “He likes his morning seed mixed with milk; his evening seed with wine. His name is Mirti. He’s very tame and affectionate. I—said I was bringing him to my aunt....” He paused. “You are going to take him back alive, aren’t you? You’d get so much more information that way.”

“Wouldn’t dream of hurting a hair—a feather—no, it is a hair, isn’t it?—of the little fellow’s head.”

Clarey looked out of the window at the purple night sky. Then he turned back to the colonel. “I’ve been taking music lessons,” he said defiantly.

“Fine! Every man should have a hobby!”

“But I’ve no music license.”