"And do not forget the prophets," Larhgan put in helpfully. As former Chief Beauty of the planet (an elective civil-service office), she was not accustomed to being left out of things. "We have many prophets. And saints. I myself am studying to be a—"
Bbulas glared at her. Though her antennae quivered sulkily, she stopped and said no more—for the moment, anyway.
"Sounds like quite a complex civilization," Cyril commented.
"No, no!" Bbulas protested in alarm. "We are a simple primitive people without technological pretensions."
"You don't need any," Cyril assured him. "Not when you have fireworks that function in the rain."
Inside himself, Skkiru guffawed.
"We are a simple people," Bbulas repeated helplessly. "A very simple and very primitive people."
"Somehow," Raoul said, "I feel you may have a quality that civilization may have lost." The light in his eyes was recognizable to any even remotely humanoid species as a mystic glow.
But Cyril seemed well in command of the situation. "Come now, Raoul," he laughed, clapping his young colleague on the shoulder, "don't fall into the Rousseau trap—noble savage and all that sort of rot!"
"But that beggar!" Raoul insisted. "Trite, certainly, but incredible nonetheless! Before, one only read of such things—"