Boldly, he strode forward, straight towards the defenses.
Crewmen moved up to meet him—cold-eyed, weapons leveled.
He reached the edge of the perimeter; stood there, waiting.
A Fantay officer came out. Ray-gun in hand, throat-sac aquiver, he circled Jarl, uncertainty and puzzlement written on his ugly face.
Jarl threw out more of the meaningless, clacking syllables. The mask distorted them even further. They came out a guttural rattle like nothing ever heard on any planet.
A Pervod said, "Better take him in to the commissioner. Maybe the vocodor can make something of his gabble."
The Fantay nodded briefly. His pad-like hands moved over Jarl, probing the plumes, the wrist-bands, the girdle.
A trickle of sand spilled to the ground.
The Fantay brushed it off, unheeding. He reached up; started to fumble at the catches of the metal mask.
Jarl's heart leaped. He knocked away the officer's hand and hurled an angry cascade of gutturals at the creature.