"No," the king said. "We accept no gifts." Was that the unique social structure? Fannia wondered. It certainly was not human. "We are a warrior race. What we want, we take."
Fannia sat cross-legged in front of the dais and exchanged conversation with the king while Donnaught played with the spurned toys. Trying to overcome the initial bad impression, Fannia told the chief about the stars and other worlds, since simple people usually liked fables. He spoke of the ship, not mentioning yet that it was out of fuel. He spoke of Cascella, telling the chief how its fame was known throughout the Galaxy.
"That is as it should be," the chief said proudly. "We are a race of warriors, the like of which has never been seen. Every man of us dies fighting."
"You must have fought some great wars," Fannia said politely, wondering what idiot had written up the galactic report.
"I have not fought a war for many years," the chief said. "We are united now, and all our enemies have joined us."
Bit by bit, Fannia led up to the matter of the fuel.
"What is this 'fuel'?" the chief asked, haltingly because there was no equivalent for it in the Cascellan language.
"It makes our ship go."
"And where is it?"
"In the metal spire," Fannia said. "If you would just allow us—"