Back in the ship's diplomatic area, Grayfield met with the Corps' Praetor Majoris.

Mahmallah was ecstatic, gushing on about rivers of gold, mountains of mineral wealth, tons of titanium.

"I've seen the potential," Grayfield said. "But what do you think of them?"

"Them?"

"The Peacehands."

"They give me the willies, sir, with all those eyes hanging out, watching you everywhere you go. But I see no harm in them."

"And your impression, Lorca?"

Lorca, who had studied anthropology, was practical yet sensitive. Unlike most of Grayfield's officers, he had been born at the front end of the Computer Generation, and was therefore a little less blinded by ambition. He rubbed a hand over his olive, close-shaven chin.

"Sir, I've seen no evidence of discord or want among the Peacehands. They defer to each other and to us with a humility that defies logic. How could such a species survive and prosper under the laws of natural evolution, much less the rigors of social development?" Lorca asked.

"Precisely what I was wondering myself," Grayfield answered. "And you, Hobson?"

The mustachioed Hobson was the Conquest Officer. She spoke in a smoky, deep voice. "Any resistance would be temporary at most. I saw no military organization nor even the most rudimentary hand weapon among them." She sounded disappointed.

Mahmallah broke in, enthusiasm painting his words. "Sir, it's a cakewalk. There will be bonuses all around, maybe even a vacation among the beauties of Sector Seven. I've never seen such precious ores as these."

"Save your ardor for furlough, Praetor."

Mahmallah, chastened, returned to his computerized geology plots. Soon their data and reports would be sorted and efficiently analyzed by High Command, conclusions reached among the microprocessors, and viability determinations channeled back to the Areopagus. Then would come orders, from across the cold voids of space, sent by that invisible and almighty tribunal.

Grayfield suspected that the Areopagus was only a more sophisticated computer, a futuristic Alexander the Great made of circuitry and bit-streams. But the chain of command had been drilled into him and was unbreakable. Orders were orders.

"Lorca, I'm disturbed by their passivity. They seem willing to embrace us and welcome us without fear. And their demeanor is submissive, even though surely they sense that our interest is more than academic. The only word I can think of to describe them is 'beatific.'"

"'Made happy through blessing,'" Lorca translated automatically. "But I observed no outward display of religion, no icons or temples, no symbols, no paraphernalia of worship."

"Think, man," said Grayfield. "Streets of gold. Wings atrophied from lack of use. Spiritual satisfaction. Eternal bodies. Inner peace. What does that bring to mind?"

"You mean the old Christian legend of heaven?"

"Absolutely. It all adds up."

"Sir, computers have proven beyond doubt that such a place could not exist. All cults have been founded on flawed data. That is why the Areopagus banned religion."

So even the sentimental Lorca wouldn't make a leap of faith. Grayfield sighed. Better to show no more weakness. All the praetors coveted his position and were trained to seek opportunities for their own advancement. It was the spirit on which the Areopagus Space Fleet was founded.

"So they have, Lorca. Meeting adjourned. File your reports."

High Command seconded the motion into their ear-implants.

Grayfield returned to his quarters, his head buzzing. In his own report, he would name the planet. It was one of the perks of his rank. He had already decided on "Angelorum Orbis." World of Angels.

He wrestled awhile with his data, then lay on his bunk to think. All species had their belief systems. Mere physical survival was never enough. Where there was thought, there was reflection. He had studied many religions, seen forms of worship so obviously flawed that they seemed the product of mass madness. Indeed, the more outrageous the religion, the more fervent its followers were.

Yet here was a species whose spirituality was apparently above reproach. Grayfield had been raised on the cocksure rightness of Areopagan philosophy. But did it not fall short of the glory of the Peacehands, who practiced goodness for the sake of goodness instead of goodness for the sake of reward?

He filed his report, then requested another meeting with Exa, alone. There was a riddle here, and he would solve it or be damned.

They met at the dome. Grayfield had left his Command-implant on board. He didn't want the ship's computer to record his conversations. If there were truths to be found here, Grayfield wanted to savor them alone.

"Do you wish to take another walk, Captain?" Exa asked.

"Please lead on."

He was aching for another vision, itching to take in the glory and serenity of the golden land. He was rewarded with a splendid sunset, its rays gilding the city under violet skies. Grayfield wondered if this was the peace and tranquillity that had long eluded him, and if it was, how he could possess it. His eyes drank greedily as they walked in silence.

Exa finally spoke. "Imperius Grayfield, I have told you of our people."

"You've been very patient."

"Now I ask you of yours."