“The last word in hospitality,” Giradaux joked lamely-
Mclntyre tapped a heel on the floor of the tent. “Plastisteel, I bet. We won’t be diggin’ our way out.”
“No, we’re here to stay,” Vorgens admitted, “for awhile,”
The last shafts of sunlight were disappearing behind the forest at the edge of the meadow when a Komani youth arrived at the entrance with a tray of food. The youngster hesitated momentarily at the doorway, then walked in, very stiff and grave, placed the tray on the bare table, and half-ran out of the tent.
“Guess he thought we’d eat him,” Mclntyre said.
It was a good-enough meal, although less than would satisfy the Terrans’ appetites. By the time they finished eating it was dark. The night-long twilight of Shinar was broken only by the ceremonial campfires that dotted the camp.
Mclntyre rose from his cross-legged squat at the table, stretched as well as he could with his bandaged arm, and said, “I’m gonna grab some sack time. With your permission, sir.”
“It’s not my permission that counts,” Vorgens murmured.
“Sir?”
“Nothing, sergeant. Go on, have a good sleep. We can skip the formalities for the time being.”
“Okay, sir. If you want me, just holler.”
With a nod of his head, Mclntyre made it clear to Giradaux that he should sleep, too.
Vorgens left them alone and stepped out to the doorr way of the tent. He could sense the Komani guards tighten a fraction as he appeared in the flickering firelight. He stopped just outside the doorway. The guards said nothing.
Vorgens stood there looking out across the bizarre camp, etched in fireiight. A chilling night breeze moaned by, and then, mixed with it, came a low, plaintive chant from somewhere near the center of the meadow.