The chief’s house was the only three-story building in the city. The tall spire of the cache was right behind it.
“If you come in peace,” the chief said when they entered, “you are welcome.” He was a middle-aged Cascellan with at least fifteen knives strapped to various parts of his person. He squatted cross-legged on a raised dais.
“We are privileged,” Fannia said. He remembered from the hypnotic language lesson that “chief” on Cascella meant more than it usually did on Earth. The chief here was a combination of king, high priest, deity and bravest warrior.
“We have a few simple gifts here,” Fannia added, placing the gewgaws at the king’s feet. “Will his majesty accept?”
“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 c the ship, not mentioning yet that it was out of fuel. He spoke 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.