Arabella of Mars(79)

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.

The captain immediately reminded them of that, using the full-throated command voice that carried through storms and brooked no disobedience, ending with “and belay that lollygagging at the rail!”

Immediately the dozens of heads that had been peering over the rail vanished, the men returning to their duties.

From within the hull came clatters, clanks, and muffled thuds, along with occasional cries of despair from Quinn the purser.

“We should return aboard,” the captain said, “to supervise the inspection.”

*

The Martians were extremely thorough, but they worked quickly, and when they were done nearly every thing had been returned to its original place. Most of the Martians retreated, leaving the original four on the quarterdeck along with Diana’s officers. “We thanks you for inspecting,” the one in the purple hat told the captain. “We welcomes you visiting our plantation.”

At that statement of ownership a cold anger seized Arabella’s heart, but she pushed it down—it might merely be an error in the Martian’s imperfect English, or reflect their current, temporary occupation of the property.

“Thank you,” the captain replied. “May we impose upon your hospitality? My crew require food, drink, and exercise. And we hope to negotiate for the purchase of coal, and the use of the furnaces in your drying-sheds, or else our visit here may well be of indefinite duration.”

The Martian conferred with the other members of her rukesh and replied, “For this you must speaking akhmok.”

The captain raised a questioning eyebrow to Arabella, who shrugged to indicate her ignorance of the word’s meaning.

“Very well,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “Take us to this … ‘akmok.’” Like most Englishmen, he could not properly pronounce the Martian kh.

The purple-hatted Martian stiffened in indignation. “Not ‘us.’ Not all. Only rukesh may speaking akhmok.”

“Only our leaders,” Arabella quietly translated.

“Very well.” He turned to the other officers. “Richardson, Stross, with me.”

Arabella, too, stepped forward, but the captain leaned down and took her hand. “I must insist that you remain behind,” he said gently, “for safety’s sake.”

“I appreciate your concern, sir,” she replied with as much confidence as she could muster, “but for that very reason—for the safety of yourself and every other man on this ship—I must insist that I accompany you, as translator and adviser in matters Martian.” Her knowledge of Martian languages and culture had its gaps, to be sure, but it was certainly better than that of any other man aboard, and she knew enough of the history of the English on Mars to know that even small misunderstandings could lead to fatal outcomes.