“Not since Thista,” Lors assured him, accepting the tumbler. He held up the glass for a toast. “To you, sir, and your daughter. May she be saved from marrying a mushshell gatherer.”
Commander Zark chuckled and they drank, the soft, mellow taste of the wine lingering fondly in their mouths long after the drink had found its way into their stomachs.
“Now then, Lors. Tell me what that fool of an Imry did to you.”
He told the Commander everything, watching the older man nod his head from time to time, the stubby fingers of his hands forming a pyramid before his lips as he slumped in his chair. Lors left nothing out, except his love for Beth Danson. He couldn’t bring himself to tell about that. When he had finished, Commander Zark’s eyes were hot with angry indignation.
“I’ll see that Imry cannot get a command on a planet with a pure ammonia atmosphere for this [p111] trick! I’ll see him tortured by Thistians!” The old man stopped his tirade as quickly as he had begun it. “You know what this means, Lors?”
“I’m afraid to guess.”
“The wrecked scout ship can be covered up easily enough because of the Terran politics; they always arrange it so that one branch of government has no idea of what the other branches are doing. We’ll have some of our men in Washington mumble in their beards about experimental aircraft until everyone is taken from the scene except our people. Then we’ll have the ship taken somewhere, ostensibly to be studied, and they’ll all forget it.
“But these Terrans are another matter. If they can get their people to listen to them, we’re in trouble...”
“Perhaps,” Lors said softly, “if they were believed, it would speed up our relations with the Terran governments.”
Zark shook his grey head. “No. They aren’t ready yet. They’re still in such a fluctuating state that half the population believes in witchcraft and superstition, while the other half understands science and looks toward the future.