A long, thick organ of royal purple had emerged from the slit in the Zardalu’s head and stretched four feet along the beach. Nenda took three paces forward, but he paused a few inches short of the tongue. He glared down into the wide blue eyes. “All right. You lot are finally learnin’ what we knew all along. You’re a pack of incompetent slimebags, an’ we got you beat any day of the week. We know all that. But what are you proposin’?”
The tongue slid back in. “A — a truce?”
“Forget it.”
“Then — a surrender. On any terms that you demand. Provided only that you will guide us, and teach us the way that you think and function. And help us to leave this planet when we wish to do so. And in return, we are willing to give you—”
“Don’t worry your head about that. We’ll decide what you’ll give us in return. We got some ideas already.” The slimy tongue had come out again. Nenda placed his right boot firmly on top of it. “If we decide to go along with your proposal.”
“We?” with a tongue that could not move, the Zardalu garbled the word.
“Yeah. We. Naturally, I gotta consult my partner on a big decision like this.” Nenda gestured to Atvar H’sial, and read the look of horror in the bulging cerulean eyes of the Zardalu. The great body wriggled, while a gargling sound of apology came from the mouth slit.
Nenda did not lift his foot a millimeter, but he nodded thoughtfully.
“I know. She may be so mad at bein’ called a slave that she’ll just decide to blast you all to vapor, and that’ll be that.”
“Master—”
“But I’m a nice guy.” Louis Nenda removed his foot from the Zardalu’s tongue, turned, and headed casually back to the Indulgence.
“You stay right there, while I try to put in a good word for you,” he said over his shoulder. “If you’re real lucky, mebbe we can work somethin’ out.”