“There always activity among my people,” he responded truthfully—and uninformatively. “It possible some might try to take advantage of such a situation as this by blaming it on others.” He looked to his companion for confirmation.
Masurathoo was appropriately outraged. “My people would never do such a thing! I am insulted. Insulted!”
“But not absolutely, one hundred percent sure that it couldn’t be the case?” Hasa commented thoughtfully.
Both trunks wilted, droplets running down their naked lengths. “No. How could I possibly say that? This whole situation in which we find ourselves is so unthinkable, so bizarre, that I fear nothing can be ruled out.” Moon eyes regarded the tall Sakuntala. “Which means that it is also entirely possible, sirs, that elements among the Sakuntala have instigated our present difficulties with an eye toward blaming them upon my people.”
“Why would they do that?” Hasa pulled the leading edge of his rain cape lower on his forehead.
“As one more rationale for trying to drive us off this world, which has been a major desire of certain radical elements among the Sakuntala ever since my ancestors were first brought here. Any excuse, however absurd, to wreak violence against the Deyzara is keenly welcomed by such hostile groups.”
Jemunu-jah accepted the accusation quietly. He had to, because he knew it to be true.
The tension between the two of them seemed to amuse the human. “You folks really don’t like each other much, do you? Well, if it means anything, I don’t like you, either. I don’t like ignorant, big-eared, thieving primitives. I don’t like mincing, snake-faced, money-grubbing immigrants. And I don’t like this stinking, soaking, moldering muddle of a planet.”