Trailing the philologist, the party made its way to the two natives.
“Uh,” began the philologist, straining over the guttural syllables, “we come in peace, Terran. Friends. Buddies. Comrades. Blut-bruderhood. We good-guys. You comprende?”
“Me, Tarzan; you Jane,” said the Terran.
The philologist turned worriedly to Rappan. “I’m afraid I can’t place his answer, sir. The reference is obscure. Shall I try again?”
“Skip it,” said the Terran, in fluent, if archaic Galactico. “Ancient humorism. Surprising how old jokes stand time better than most monuments.” He seemed to sigh a little.
“You speak!” blurted the xenologist.
“An unfortunate malady of which I seem incapable of breaking myself. Sic transit gloryoski. Up the Veen. But come on down to the house. Maria’s making some ice cream—I hope you like chocolate—you’re welcome
12
With Friends Like These . . .
to try it, although I don’t think we’d have enough for King Kong, here.”
Zinin decided to regard this unfamiliar aphorism as a neutral compliment. There wasn’t much else he could do. He tried to hunch his three-meter bulk lower, gave it up when he realized that he didn’t know whether the promised ice cream was a food, a paint, or a mild corrosive for cleaning out reluctant teeth.
“We appreciate your hospitality, sir. We’ve come to discuss a very urgent matter with your superiors. It involves perhaps more than you can comprehend.” Here the Professor peered hard at the native, who looked back at him with placid assurance. “Although I have a hunch you might have some idea what I mean.”