Sid looked at Jane, who shrugged. Words and phrases were already forming in her mind. The sad proud look on the old chief's face. The gleaming, healthy, royal purple Mandmoorans. The dried, withered vegetation all around them, scorched by the swollen sun. The angry, resentful look on some of the Mandmooran faces behind the chief. The distant wailing chant of the sun-worshipping priests.
"... cameras," Sid was saying. "As for the lady, she only wants to talk with you and look around some. All right?"
"Twice," the chief said slowly, "your soldiers try to trick us. Third time now."
Sid shrugged. "We're not soldiers."
"You have nothing to do with them?"
"We have nothing to do with them."
"Third trick make people angry."
"If there's a third trick, we're no part of it."
The chief nodded solemnly and turned to face the water. Ahead of the flotilla, a single runabout was quite close to land now. Jane recognized the corporal who had chased her out on the quay. With him were two other soldiers.
"Halloa!" the corporal shouted. "Hallo, Miz Crowley. Won't do you no good to try and hide. We got orders to take you back. Mr. Masters with you, ma'am. You'll come peacefully?"