Entering his store, Larkin started in surprise. Seated in a soft chair at the back was Malovar.
The Martian ruler was old, how old only Malovar and the gods of Mars knew. His skin was wrinkled, his face was a bleak mask that looked as if it had never formed a smile. Except for the curious metal staff that he held across his lap, the Martian ruler wore no insignia of his office. His clothing was a simple tunic like the togas of the ancient Romans. He was smoking a thin reed pipe, the only luxury he ever permitted himself, and the rich flavor of Martian tobacco was heavy in the room. With him was one attendant, an elder of the tribe.
Larkin bowed. "I am honored, sire." It was not too unusual for Malovar to pay him a visit. The ruler went from the greatest mansion to the humblest hut at will.
"Come sit, my friend." The Martian's voice was as gentle as the passing of a soft breeze but Larkin knew that this breeze would turn into a tornado in an instant. He sat down. Silently, Malovar extended his tobacco pouch. Silently Larkin took it.
"A ship landed this afternoon, my friend," Malovar said.
"Yes," Larkin agreed.
"You have been to talk to your countrymen."
It was a simple statement. Larkin writhed inwardly but attempted no denial. "How did you know?"
"I have ways of knowing. Tell me, are they scientists, or explorers, or traders? Or some other breed of that curious creature—the human being?"