The baron paused briefly. "Fifty hours to pack up, plus one additional hour for each mile the fellow has to stump it to the outer radius."
"My translator is working badly," the voice of the elder was parroting.
"Look," the baron grunted at the mike. "All we want is to accomplish what we came here for, and then get out—as quickly as possible. We don't have much time to be polite. I invite the elders of the Geoark to confer in my flagship. We'll try to make everything clear to you. Is this agreed?"
"My translator is working badly."
"Aren't you getting anything?"
A pause, then: "I understand that you wish us to come to the place where the sky-fleet rests."
"Correct."
"But what of the welcome we have made for our brethren in the feast-glades?"
"I shall dispatch flyers to pick you up immediately. Unless you have aircraft of your own."
"We have no machinery but the self-sustaining mechanisms in the Earth."