She was beautiful, but not coldly so. Despite her imperious bearing, there was something seductive about the soft curves of her beautiful body; something to rouse the pulses of a man in the langour of her intensely blue eyes, and the full, sensuous lips, scarlet as a smear of fresh blood.
"So this is the stowaway," I said, trying to keep my voice coolly indifferent. "What is your name?"
"I should prefer," she replied, speaking the universal language with a sibilant accent that was very fascinating, "to speak with you privately."
"You will speak with me," I informed her crisply, "in the presence of these officers. I repeat: what is your name?"
She smiled faintly, her eyes compelling mine.
"I am called Liane," she said. "Chief Priestess of the Flame. Mother of Life. Giver of Death. I believe my name and position are not unknown to you, Commander Hanson?"
Known to me? If Base was not in error—and for all their faults, the silver-sleeves are seldom wrong in matters of this sort—this woman was the reason for our present mission.
"They are known to me," I admitted. "They do not explain, however, your presence here."
"And yet they should," protested Liane gently. "I was taken from my own people by those who had no right to command me. I was subjected to the indignity of questioning by many men. I have merely taken the simplest and quickest way of returning to my own people."