Abruptly, thus, the interview was over. The old native was obviously tired. The linguist got to his feet, intending to express his pleasure at the outcome. He had his mouth open, and it stayed that way when the blast-rifle was suddenly thrust into his hands. The official, who had handed it to him, put a tentacle on his shoulder in what Stuart recognized as a gesture of friendship.
The linguist grinned, put his hand on the other's shoulder, and handed back the weapon.
There was a great din of whistling and cries of "Aru! Aru naa lo!" It became a sort of cheer, with a crowd of natives following Stuart and his three guides back down the tunnel. The old official stood and watched them go.
Back in the daylight, the linguist was startled to discover that Procyon was low in the sky and that night was near. He hurried down the path toward his scout ship to get away from the iron hill. Hastily he switched on his radio. Before he could catch his breath enough to talk, he heard White's voice.
"Hey, I see him! There he is, chief; there's the little guy!" Sounds of the drive being activated came through the earphone.
Gordon's voice cut in. "You okay, Stuart?"
"Yes, yes, I'm all right. Come on down—peaceably."
"What's the deal?"
"They're convinced. They'll have their president, or whatever, here in the morning to sign a treaty with us."
"WHAT?!"