"And look at this," he held to the light a crystalline jar that adorned the table. "Would you look at it, Khosan? Vanadol, the nectar of the Gods! An ancient vintage, too! I found it hidden away, far back on one of the dark shelves. I am sure," he smiled slyly, "that our host can obtain more where it came from, so let us drink to this occasion." He poured the blue liquor into their cups. "Yes, Khosan, an occasion—that two such as you and I should find our way here!"
Ketrik smiled, barely touched the stinging liquor to his lips.
When they had finished the repast, Aarnto rose and excused himself, but stood a moment hesitant. "I must leave you now, and I may have no occasion to return here. I wish to thank you, Thurlo, for you have been most gracious. And you—Khosan. We have been helpful to each other?"
"Yes, Aarnto. You more than I."
"Then the debt is paid." With that, the black was gone, out into the night which swallowed him up.
Thurlo sighed. "I hope he never returns. I do not like that one! If he is caught, and it becomes known I harbored one of the S'Relah here, even for a day.... I only did it for you, Ketrik."
"You needn't worry. He's a clever one. But I wish I knew what they were up to!"
"They'll fry on Dar Vaajo's torture plates," Thurlo prophesied.
Ketrik thought of his own fate if he were caught, but quickly put it out of mind. "What do you think they're up to, Thurlo?"
The little Martian spoke slowly. "The S'Relah? They are apart from other Rajecs. Treaties mean nothing to those fanatics. They wish to strike at Dar Vaajo, and"—he hesitated—"what better way to do it than through his daughter?"