It was an impressive sight, even though the actual number of Marines was quite small.
Finally Giradaux touched his arm and said, ‘There it is, sir.”
Vorgens followed the trooper’s gaze and saw the Komani camp.
A ring of ceremonial fires, spaced every fifty yards or so, circled the perimeter of the vast encampment. The gaudy domed tents were decked with blood-red drapings. Long processions of men, women and children were filing among the tents, heading for the center, where the dead Kang lay.
In the place where Okatar’s golden tent had stood there now rose a tall pyre, unlit as yet. Heaped atop it were piles of offerings—weapons, ornaments, warriors’ trappings, personal treasures—glittering in the sunshine. Vorgens could see the processions of Komani all converged on this pyre. Each person, no matter how young or old, handed something to the warriors who were stacking the offerings on the wooden structure that held the dead Kang’s coffin.
Suddenly the sky around them was black with Komani flyers, buzzing angrily all around. Vorgens held up his hands in the sign of peace.
One of the Komani pulled up close enough to touch the aircar, and for several moments they flew side by ide, staring at each other. Finally the warrior touched a jeweled band at his throat and then pointed to his lips.
‘Try the radio,” Vorgens said to Giradaux.
“Leave here at once,” the warrior was snarling, “and be grateful that we do not kill on a day of mourning. Only our ancient custom has saved your lives today.”