"Sit down," the interpreter directed.
Harding was not in evidence. "Where is my companion?" he asked.
The interpreter conferred briefly with the leader, then told Sheckly, "He could not come. Sit down—eat."
Sheckly sat down, but he didn't feel like eating. He wondered why Harding could not come. At a sudden thought, he said, "I have rations on my ship—"
"Eat," the interpreter said, gripping his sword.
Sheckly nodded weakly and reached out for the bowl of fruit, taking one that resembled that which Harding had eaten the previous night. It wasn't bad. The leader stuffed a fistful of squirming insects in his mouth and offered the bowl to Sheckly, who shook his head as politely as he could and indicated the fruit in his hand.
Fortunately, the serpentman did not insist on his taking anything other than fruit, so the meal passed without physical discomfort.
When they were through, the leader hissed several syllables to the interpreter, who said, "The leader wishes to see your games. You will set them up now."
Sheckly ran his tongue over dry lips. "They're in the ship," he said, and eagerness crept into his voice. "I'll have to get them." Once inside the ship, he'd never come back. He'd slam the airlock door and bolt it and then blast off as fast as he could get the motors going, Harding or no Harding. He got up.
"We will help you," the interpreter said.