Traherne pointed silently to the throne-seated Raja, who was watching quite impassively.
But Rukh spoke now. “I am sorry,” he said, drawling his clear voice lazily, “to interrupt these effusions, but—”
“Who are you, sir?” The English lad’s voice barked something like a gun.
“I am the Raja of Rukh,” the prince replied. “And you?”
“Flight-Lieutenant Cardew,” the boy-pilot said formally. “I have the honor to represent His Majesty, the King-Emperor.”
Rukh looked uninterested. “The King-Emperor? Who is that, pray? We live so out of the world here, I don’t seem to have heard of him,” he lied.
“You will in a minute, Raja,” the youth muttered back, “if you don’t instantly hand over his subjects.”
“His subjects?” The Raja seemed puzzled. “Ah,” he exclaimed not unindifferently, but as if a light had broken in, “I see you mean the King of England. What terms does His Majesty propose?”
“We make no terms with cut-throats,” Cardew snapped. “If I do not signal,” he added, looking at the watch on his wrist, “your submission within three minutes of our landing—” If he finished his sentence, no one heard it.
A great slithering noise crashed down from the air, and all Rukh seemed to rock from the shock of a sudden explosion.