“I felt sure you would. You are a technician. You have registered it for all tune as a matter of technical utility.” He paused, staring at Skhiva. “I know that formula, too. It was mentioned to me, casually, many years ago. It is of no use to me—yet I have never forgotten it.”
“Why?”
“Because it holds the beauty of rhythm. It is a poem,” Pander explained.
Skhiva sighed and said, “I don’t get it.”
“ One upon R into omega L minus one upon omega C,” recited Pander. “A perfect hexameter.” He showed his amusement as the other rocked back.
After a while, Skhiva remarked, “It could be sung. One could dance to it.”
“Same with this.” Pander exhibited his rough sketch. “This holds beauty. Where there is beauty there once was talent—may still be talent for all we know. Where talent abides is also greatness. In the realms of greatness we may find powerful friends. We need such friends.”
“You win.” Skhiva made a gesture of defeat. “We leave you to your self-chosen fate in the morning.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
That same streak of stubbornness which made Skhiva a worthy commander induced him to take one final crack at Pander shortly before departure. Summoning him to his room, he eyed the poet calculatingly.