“Tsuda,” said Utterbourne dreamily, “what’s the name of this favourite son of his people who’s honouring us with the lantern?”
“That is Nipek-kem, Captain.”
“Nipek-kem,” ordered Utterbourne, turning toward the Ainu, “come here with the light a minute.”
The young savage stared. Tsuda uttered a few curt foreign syllables, and then the Ainu bounded toward them.
“Nipek-kem,” suggested the Captain in his lazy drawl, “please hold the lantern just here.”
Tsuda, vaguely alarmed, repeated the command in the crude dialect of Paromushir. All his antennae were out. He sniffed the psychic air between them.
The Ainu youth, his shirt royal with souvenirs of service, like that of a general after a life of triumphant campaigns, held the light where he was bidden to hold it.
Captain Utterbourne glanced round the circle, then murmured: “I’ve been wondering, Tsuda, about that curious little pouch at your belt. You never used to wear it.”
The two men stared at each other, striving to break through those barriers which the Great Mother teaches her children to throw up about their souls.
“That, Captain? Oh—gn—it’s—”