Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampart of thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terry forays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by the Flap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off his back, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situation was correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long....
A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off. He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in an agitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket.
"Sit tight," he said. "Don't try to do anything hasty...." His remarks were falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke as loudly as words.
There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring of presences drawing closer.
Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now, looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jacks came in all sizes.
A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, faded out. Retief cocked his head, frowning.
"Try it two octaves higher," he said.
"Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better?" a clear voice came from the darkness.
"That's fine," Retief said. "I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange."