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More! the word formed itself in his mind. More!

He went on squeezing.

But . . . You are not a worker . . . You are a drone . . .

And that word "drone" denoted masculinity, not idleness.

You are a drone . . . You shall be the first father of the new Hive . . .

"Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker . . ." muttered Deane, struggling to maintain a straight face.

Grimes glared at the telepath, What was so funny about this? He was feeling, strongly, the stirrings of desire. She was female, wasn't she? She was female, and she was beautiful, and he was male. She was female—and in his mind's eye those flimsy wings were transparent draperies enhancing, not concealing, the symmetry of the form of a lovely woman—slim, with high, firm breasts, with long, slender legs. She wanted him to be her mate, her consort.

She wanted him.

She . . .

Suddenly the vision flickered out.

This was no woman spread in alluring, naked abandon.

This was no more than a repulsive insect sprawled in drunken untidiness, desecrating the flag that had been spread over the table that served it for a bed. The wings were crumpled, a dull film was over the faceted eyes. A yellowish ichor oozed from among the still-working mandibles.

Grimes retched violently. To think that he had almost . . .

"Captain!" Deane's voice was urgent. "She's out like a light! She's drunk as a fiddler's bitch!"

"And we must keep her that way!" snapped Grimes. He was himself again. He strode to the nearest bulkhead pick-up. "Attention, all hands! This is the Captain speaking. Shut down inertial and interstellar drive units. Energize Carlotti transceiver. Contact any and all shipping in the vicinity, and request aid as soon as possible. Say that we are drifting, with main engines inoperable due to fuel shortage." He turned to Deane. "I'm leaving you in charge, Spooky. If she shows signs of breaking surface, you know what to do." He looked sternly at the telepath. "I suppose I can trust you . . ."

"You can," the psionic communications officer assured him. "You can. Indeed you can, captain. I wasn't looking forward at all, at all, to ending my days as a worker in some peculiar Terran-Shaara Hive!" He stared at Grimes thoughtfully. "I wonder if the union would have been fertile?"

"That will do, Mr. Deane," growled Grimes.

"Fantastic," breathed Commodore Damien. "Fantastic. Almost, Mr. Grimes, I feel a certain envy. The things you get up to . . ."

The aroma of good Scotch whisky hung heavily in the air of the Commodore's office. Damien, although not an abstainer, never touched the stuff. Grimes's tastes were catholic—but on an occasion such as this he preferred to be stone cold sober.

"It is more than fantastic," snarled the Shaara Queen-Emissary, the special envoy of the Empress herself. Had she not been using a voice-box her words would have been slurred. "It is . . . disgusting. Reprehensible. This officer forced liquor down the throat of a member of our Royal family. He . . ."

"He twisted her arm?" suggested the Commodore.

"I do not understand. But she is now Queen-Mother of Brooum. A drunken, even alcoholic Queen-Mother."

"I saved my ship and my people," stated Grimes woodenly.

Damien grinned unpleasantly. "Isn't this where we came in, Lieutenant? But no matter. There are affairs of far more pressing urgency. Not only do I have to cope with a direct complaint from the personal representative of Her Imperial Majesty . . ."

Even though she was wearing a voice-box, the Queen-Emissary contrived to hiccough. And all this, Grimes knew, was going down on tape. It was unlikely that he would ever wear the ribbon of the Order of the Golden Honeyflower, but it was equally unlikely that he would be butchered to make a Shaara holiday.

"He weaned her on Scotch . . ." persisted the Queen-Emissary.

"Aren't you, perhaps, a little jealous?" suggested Damien. He switched his attention back to Grimes. "Meanwhile, Lieutenant, I am being literally bombarded with Carlottigrams from