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Grant looked at Worf, but said nothing.

Worf sipped his drink, took a long, considered swallow, then said, “I will not be moved.”

“All citizens must stand aside when a public official comes through,” Ugulan insisted. His tone implied this would be the last polite suggestion.

Worf looked up at him. “I am not a Seniard. Therefore I do not move.”

“Therefore,” Ugulan responded, pulling his dagger, “your friend is arrested.”

Springing to his feet, Grant gasped, “What? Hey! I’m just visiting!”

The dagger swung upward as if to be its own exclamation point, and was on the downward arc when Worf came to life. Ah! At last! His move was extremely simple and not particularly inspired, a basic block of Ugulan’s arm, but Worf imagined he had Ugulan nearly figured out already and could afford to not be creative.

He was right. Ugulan was thrown off, and clattered into a stand of empty iron chairs. The chairs went over, clanging like gongs against the brickwork street, and Ugulan went down among them. By the time he had scrambled to one knee, Worf was squared off between Ugulan and Grant, standing ground like a living portcullis.

One of the other Rogues clasped Mrs. Khanty’s arm to draw her away from the developing trouble, but she resisted.

Worf didn’t wait for Ugulan to get entirely to his feet, but freely charged the guard and drove him into a parqueted wall, knocking a stenciled sign from its hook. Ugulan’s hood fell from his head, revealing his spinelike brow ridge and showing clearly that he, too, was a Klingon, as if there had been a bit of doubt.

Worf had clung to that silly doubt, but now his rage drove down his illogic.

Angry now, Ugulan reached into his jacket and drew his government phaser.

Worf didn’t back off. “So,” he said, “the Rogue Force of Sindikash uses women’s weapons.”

Evidently one of the universe’s classic simpletons, Ugulan allowed himself to be goaded. He thrust himself to his feet and accommodated his opponent by holstering the phaser and bringing the dagger forward again.

Guarding Mrs. Khanty, the other Rogues were furious, too. Any guard who had his phaser out now put it away.

“You’re so predictable, boys,” the woman commented.

“Let us!” one demanded.

Would they make no move without her permission? Were Klingons not Klingons?

“Go, Genzsha,” she said.

Two of the Rogues stayed with her, but the forward four rushed to Ugulan’s side, and all squared off against Worf.

The big contenders circled slowly against the square’s buildings. By appearance, Klingons fit well among the medieval dye colors of Sindikash—earthy, moody, deep and stirring colors that gave an impression of permanent autumn, flickering with gilded designs crafted from the planet’s micalike ores. Even the brickwork imitated the woven texture of the Persian-style carpets the colony was famous for.

It also made a mean surface to knock against. Hitting a wall on Sindikash was entirely different from hitting a wall anywhere else. The walls here had exposed dentils of brick to smash against, and the newcomer made good use of that. Careful not to let Ugulan get a grip on him, Worf shoved Ugulan and two other Rogues into the same wall so hard that the impact set a stained glass window rattling. They all came up again, but came up bruised and gashed from the ragged brickwork. If only all planets cooperated so well.

Holographers who had been following Mrs. Khanty and the Rogues sprang forward now and began recording the moment. Some even dared skirt the onlookers or dodge through the grappling Klingons so they could get images of Mrs. Khanty standing there, watching calmly.

A silk wall covering shivered as Worf blew past, with two Rogues in his grip. The cafe became a blur of kicks, spins, elbows, and grunts. Stacks of etched clay urns dissolved and skittered across the brick, matched instantly by the audible crack of a limb. Worf almost stopped to make sure the limb wasn’t his—then decided a broken arm would only make him angrier and that might help.

An instant later, though, one