“I believe we should meet them on the sand,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster.
Arabella’s knees wobbled as she made her way down the steeply canted gangplank. She tried to tell herself it was because of the unaccustomed gravity. Ahead of her, the captain’s long dark hands gripped each other tightly behind the broad back of his best uniform coat. Behind her Richardson followed, muttering under his breath, the stopper of the whisky decanter rattling gently with his steps. Arabella herself held the rolled chart ahead of herself as though it were an offering, minding her footing carefully—her absurd ladylike slippers offered little purchase on the well-worn boards.
They arrived at the bottom, and finally she felt beneath her feet the familiar cool crunch of Martian sand. For how many months had she longed for this moment—her return to Mars, to Woodthrush Woods, to the sands of her birth. And yet she had never dreamed that the situation might be any thing near as dire as this.
Four Martians stepped forward from the crowd, the blue and gold tassels on their hats marking them as the group’s rukesh. They paused before the three humans. Arabella, the captain, and then, hesitantly, Richardson each dropped to one knee, backs straight and heads held high, a formal Martian posture of greeting which Arabella had thought might be the most appropriate under the circumstances. The Martians glanced at each other, then bowed in the English fashion, which Arabella took as a good sign.
The captain returned to a standing position. “We are aware,” he said in his deep clear carrying voice, “that we are an armed group entering disputed territory in time of conflict. In accordance with ancient Martian custom, we offer you hospitality”—here he gestured behind him to Arabella and Richardson, who likewise stood—“and invite you to inspect our ship.” The wording was something that he and Arabella had worked out, based on her recollections of Khema’s lessons in Martian history. She hoped that she recalled those lessons better than she did the Scripture verses she’d gotten from her mother.
The Martians did not respond. They only continued to exchange glances among themselves, their eye-stalks twisting independently.
Arabella’s heart pounded, and she felt a trickle of sweat run down her side. Did these Martians even speak English? If not, she feared that her small command of Khema’s tribal dialect would be entirely inadequate to diplomacy.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and extended the rolled chart to the nearest Martian.
The Martian took it, the worn brown vellum crinkling in her hard, jointed hands, and inspected it carefully, the other Martians watching her with great interest. Then she unrolled the chart a bit, tore a palm-sized square from the corner, and crammed the torn-off corner in her mouth.
Beside Arabella, the captain’s back stiffened, while Richardson gave a small but audible gasp. But though Arabella had expected nothing else, she now waited with her heart in her throat for the Martian’s response.
The black lidless eyes seemed to glaze over as she chewed, the hard champing mouth-parts making short work of the soft translucent vellum. When it had been completely consumed, the Martian tore off additional bits and gave them to her compatriots, who devoured them with equal concentration.
“The whisky,” Arabella whispered urgently to Richardson, who stepped forward with the decanter. The glass stopper continued to clatter even after he came to a halt, and she realized he was terrified. The captain still exuded confidence, his back straight and chest elevated, but after so many weeks in close quarters she could see from his tight-set jaw just how concerned he was.
One of the Martians took the whisky from Richardson and, after peering minutely at the bottle, delicately extracted the stopper with two sharp pincer-like fingers. She then took a small but deliberate sip, and after contemplating the flavor passed the bottle to the others.
The decanter was returned to Richardson, who nearly dropped it in his nervousness. The chart they kept. The rukesh then conferred among themselves, their low susurrations and clatters meaningless to Arabella.
Suddenly they turned, as one, and bowed to the humans. “We thanks for you hospitality gifts,” said the one with the purple hat in heavily accented English. “We accepts you inspecting invitation.” She then turned to the mob behind her and called out a long chuttering statement, which was received with low clatters and rustles. A large group of Martians then detached themselves from the crowd and moved purposefully forward, forcing the captain, Arabella, and Richardson to step aside or be trampled.
“Be sure to remind the men not to interfere with the Martians under any circumstances!” Arabella told the captain as the Martians clattered up the gangplank.