Most of the aliens about the room wore some variation of the same
bandage dress, face paint, and turban. An exception, one of three
such, was the feaster on Raf's left.

His face paint was confined to a conservative set of bars on each
cheek, those a stark black and white. His sinewy arms were bare to the
shoulder, and he wore a shell of some metallic substance as a
breast-and back-plate, not unlike the very ancient body armor of Raf's
own world. The rest of his body was covered by the bandage strips, but
they were of a dead black, which, because of the natural thinness of
his limbs, gave him a rather unpleasant resemblance to a spider.
Various sheaths and pockets hung from a belt pulled tight about his
wasp middle, and a helmet of the metal covered his head. Soldier? Raf
was sure that his guess was correct.

The officer, if officer he was, caught Raf's gaze. His small round
mouth gaped, and then his hands, with a few quick movements which Raf
followed, fascinated, pantomimed a flyer in the air. With those
talking fingers, he was able to make plain a question: was Raf the
pilot of the flitter?

The pilot nodded. Then he pointed to the officer and forced as
inquiring an expression as he could command.

The answer was sketched quickly and readably: the alien, too, was
either a pilot or had some authority over flyers. For the first time
since he had entered this building, Raf knew a slight degree of
relaxation.

The wrinkleless, too smooth skin of the alien was a darkish yellow.