“Large animals are one thing,” said Phule. “An invasion by a space-going race is something else entirely.”
“In theory, sir, I agree,” said Beeker. “But if the aliens were not aggressive, there might be a considerable interval before they interacted. Especially if the invaders find the swampy areas of this world as unattractive as the natives do the deserts, there is no reason they would have come into contact before now.”
Phule grimaced. “They’re welcome to the swamps and deserts both,” he said, fanning himself with his hat. “Anyhow, we know for a fact they’re here, just not what they look like. Now, if we can get them to return us to the hoverjeep, we can use the translator instead of trying to communicate by gestures and guesses. Any ideas how we can do that?”
Beeker leaned his chin on the back of his right hand. “We appear to need the translator to communicate, yet we cannot communicate to our captors that we require it. This is the sort of circular logic puzzle that one might find diverting if one were to read about it in a story.”
“Maybe you like that kind of puzzle, but it’s driving me crazy,” said Phule. “If you find it so diverting, you’re welcome to solve it yourself.”
“Alas, sir, I have already devoted considerable thought to it,” said Beeker imperturbably. “As yet, I have not obtained a satisfactory result. I continue to ponder the question.”
“Ponder faster, Beek,” said Phule. “Getting out of this cell may depend on it. Not to mention getting something better to eat…” He pointed at the remains of their meal.