"We do not talk about it," I said with dignity. "It is tabu. Bad form."
"And now," announced the guide, glancing at his watch, "we have just time for the war dance before we leave for Vesta."
"Against whom are they planning a war?" asked a small passenger, turning pale.
"It's a vestigial ritual," Sam explained quickly, "dating back to the days when there were other—er—when there was somebody to fight. Just an invocation to the gods ... general stuff like that ... nothing to be afraid of. Isn't it so, Qan?"
"Quite so," I replied, folding all my arms across my mother's cloak. "Come in peace, go in peace. Our motto."
We started the dance. It wouldn't have got us a passing mark in first grade, where we'd learned it rffi ago, but our version of the dance of the zkuchi was plenty good enough for the tourists.
"If I ever visit Earth, Janna forbid," I thought to Ppon as we executed an intricate caracole, "I'm going to wear earplugs all the time."
The dance finished.
"Now everybody get together!" Sam shouted, clapping his hands to round up his charges. "We are about to leave little Gchik."