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“You could have died here,” the older woman said, as if accusing her of a crime. “I could have died in cryo,” Ofelia said. “Old people die; it is the way of nature. I am not afraid to die.” That was not quite true, but she had not been afraid the way this person meant it.

“It was irresponsible, nonetheless,” said the leader. “Look at the results.”

Ofelia gave him a blank look. “Results, Ser Likisi?”

He waved his arm expansively, almost hitting the younger woman in the face. “These . . . things here, knowing about humans, seeing the technology in use. The government has strict standards on the use of advanced technology in front of primitive cultures.”

“They would have found it anyway,” Ofelia said.

“But you were here to show them how to use it.”

Ofelia had wondered about that, in those first intoxicating moments of communication with the creatures, but then she had had no time to think . . . they were learning so fast. She had finally decided that the creatures would have found the master switches on their own. She had at least taught them to use caution, to respect the machines. She opened her mouth to say that, but the armed man by the front door moved suddenly, bringing up his weapon.

“Halt where you are!” he said, as if he thought anyone in the universe could understand his words.

“No!” said Ofelia. He was going to shoot one of her creatures; she couldn’t let him. That was all she thought. She pushed herself off the stool, stumbled as her bad hip stabbed at her, and pushed between the two men in chairs to get to her front door. The broad dark back of the armed man in his protective suit was in her way.

“Move,” she said, poking a finger in his back.

His reaction came so fast she was on the floor before she knew he was moving. Her head rang. Outside, a loud squawk and the rapid thud of feet—the creatures—

“Don’t hurt them!” she said, as loudly as she could. “Don’t—”

“They’re attacking,” the armed man said. She could see between his legs. Bluecloak, formally dressed in that blue cloak, throat-sac fully expanded, throbbing. Two of the others, knives drawn, eyes partly hooded by the extra eyelid.

“They’re not,” Ofelia said from the floor. Her head ached, and it was going to ache worse, and none of these people had the courtesy to help an old woman up off the floor—she rolled over, glared at the ones in chairs, who were sitting there with their mouths open as if they were children at a play. She tried to sit up, and discovered that her ribs hurt too, and so did her arm, where she had fallen on it.

“Click-kaw-keerrr!” came from outside. Bluecloak’s throat-sac pulsed.

“Click-kaw-keerrr,” Ofelia said. At least she could talk clearly enough to reassure them. She got to her knees, shook her dizzy head, and got all the way up. She limped back to the door. “Let me out,” she said to the man with the weapon. “They’re not attacking; they want to see that I’m not hurt.”

“Could have killed you,” the man muttered angrily. Stupid bitch hovered on his lips; Ofelia said nothing. “Sorry,” he said finally. “Reflex.”

“Let me out,” she said again. Slowly, still aiming his weapon at the creatures, he moved aside.

“Don’t get between us,” he said. “If I have to blow you away, I will.”

“Don’t start anything, then,” Ofelia said. She was in no more mood to be gracious than he was. “They’re not attacking, and they’ve never hurt me.” Not as much as you have, she thought at him as loudly as she could.

She limped out into the lane, and extended her hands to Bluecloak. It took them gently; its throat-sac shrank. Then it touched her head, her side, with one gentle finger. Ofelia hissed; it hurt already, and she could imagine the dark bruise swelling on her scalp.

Behind her, she heard the team leader talking to the armed man; she could not quite hear the words, but the tone was angry. So was the armed man’s reply. Let them argue; that would give her time. Time for what, she was not sure. Her head hurt a lot; she felt dizzy; she wanted to lie down in a cool dark place and have someone offer her cool drinks.

Bluecloak touched its own head, thumping it with a fist, then making the same jerk-away motion she had used to mime the pain of electric shock.

“Yes,” Ofelia said. “My head got banged on the floor; it hurts. But I’m all right.”

Bluecloak pointed to the armed man, and made a motion of swinging an elbow back to hit someone.

“Yes,” Ofelia said. “But I scared him.”

Bluecloak said “Click-kaw-keerrr.” Ofelia frowned past her headache. What did being a click-kaw-keerrr have to do with being hit by the man at the door? Did he think the man shouldn’t hit a click-kaw-keerrr? If so, what was a click-kaw-keerrr? Did they never hit theirs?