Nanomachines are often too small to see, but those that are fired at high speed by a stun blaster can be larger than an Earthling ant. At medium range, only a dozen might hit a fleeing target, and they need several seconds to devour raw matter, duplicating into thousands, before getting to work immobilizing their quarry.

There are quicker ways of subduing someone, but none quite as safe or sure. Anyway, a gulliver-gun is usually swift enough.

By now, a veritable army of little nanos swarmed over the captive, inspecting their handiwork, keeping the tiny ropes taut and jumping up and down in jubilation. Some, for lack of anything else to do, appeared to be hard at work sewing rips in the native’s dark, satin-lined cloak and black, pegged pants. Others re-coifed his mussed hair.

(Just because someone is a prisoner, that doesn’t mean he can’t look sharp.)

Guts pushed his bio-scanner toward the humanoid, having to fight through a tangle of tiny ropes while muttering something about how “…nanos are the winchers of our discontent,” in a Shakespearean accent.

Enough, I thought, drawing my blaster, flicking the setting, then sighting on the victim’s face. He cringed as I fired—

—a stream of tuned microwaves set to turn all nano fibers into harmless gas. The gag in his mouth vanished and he gasped, then began jabbering frightfully in a tongue filled with moist sibilants.

I heard a hiss as Guts injected our captive with a hypo spray, using an orange vial marked ALIEN RELAXANT #1. The native tensed for a moment, then sagged with a sigh.

Remember, students, always inspect your ship’s supply of Alien Relaxant Number One! Make sure of its purity.

Very few sentient life forms have fatal allergic reactions to 100 percent distilled water.

Nevertheless, most will respond quickly to being injected, as if a potent, local narcotic were suddenly flowing through their veins. Bless the placebo effect. Its near universality is among the few reassuring constants in an uncertain cosmos.

Guts gave me a sly wink. He knows what’s going on, so I no longer have to mix batches of “ol’ Number One” all by myself. But don’t assume your ship’s doctor will understand. Call it an “ancient human recipe” until you’re sure your medico can be trusted with the truth.

The native was now much calmer, prattling at a slower pace while I set up the universal translator on its tripod. Our captain dropped to one knee, preparing for that special moment when true First Contact could begin. Colored buttons flickered as the machine scanned, seeking meaning in the slur of local speech. Abruptly, all lights turned green. The translator swiveled and fired three more nanos at the native, one for each ear and another that streaked like a smart missile down his throat.

It isn’t painful, but startlement made him stop and swallow in surprise.