The Lemurian blinked twice and, if anything, his grin grew broader. He spread his hands out from his sides and bowed.
Matt clasped his own hands to his chest and said, "Matthew Reddy."
The creature struggled to wrap his mouth around the unfamiliar sounds. Then he made an attempt.
"Maa-tyoo Riddy."
Matt grinned back at him. "Pretty good." He turned and proceeded to name those who accompanied him, and then pointed across the water where the destroyer kept station. She really was a sight, he reflected. Streaks of rust covered her sides and the patched battle damage was made conspicuous by the fresher paint. The lizard firebomb had scorched a large section of her hull just aft of her number, and the paint was bubbled and flaking. Most of the crew was on deck at the moment too, watching them. The tattered Stars and Stripes fluttered near the top of the short mast aft.
"USS Walker," he said.
A respectful silence ensued that lasted while all the Lemurians gazed at his battered ship. Adar's grin went away and he somehow radiated solemnity when he spoke again.
"Waa-kur."
He blinked rapidly and gestured toward an opening in the large deckhouse behind him. He hesitated uncertainly, looking back, then strode purposefully through it. The other creatures cleared a lane. Apparently, he expected them to follow. Matt looked at the Bosun, who shrugged, and he glanced at the others and caught Sandra's eye. He shrugged too, and strode after the purple-robed figure, followed closely by his companions. Silva made a half-strangled, incredulous sound. Matt looked back.
"What . . . ?" Then he saw it too. Suddenly, there was no doubt Adar was male. For the first time—driving home how distracted they were— they realized many of the Lemurians staring with open curiosity were also openly, glaringly—very humanly—female. Except for bits of armor, none wore much more than a kind of skirt, or kilt. Supremely practical, since their tails made other types of clothing inconvenient, but few tunics were worn by anyone. Furry breasts of a shape and proportion entirely, fondly, familiar (except for the fur, of course) unself-consciously jutted at them from all directions. Not surprisingly, Silva was the first to notice.
"Oh, my God!" squeaked Newman.
"Fascinating!" breathed Bradford.
"Not unusual," said Sandra, a little sharply, Matt thought, and he saw her cheeks were pink. "Even `back home' it's not unusual at all for primitive people to go around like . . . this."
"Way too `unusual,' far as I'm concerned," whispered Felts, and Sandra's cheeks went darker.
"Silence!" growled Gray with less than normal vehemence. Clearing his throat, he went on, "Quit gawkin' at their dames! You want 'em to eat us? Pick up yer eyeballs. They're critters, for God's sake!"
Matt coughed. "Not `critters,' and not too `primitive' to take offense, so keep your eyes"—he looked straight at Silva—"and your hands to yourselves. That's an order!"
They stooped to enter the doorway, but inside was a much larger chamber than expected. It spanned the entire "ground" floor of the tower and the ceiling was as high as a college gym. Tapestries of coarse but ornately woven fibers decorated the walls, and large overstuffed pillows lay about the room in groups. It was a scene of considerable opulence compared to the scorched and bloodstained exterior. But even here, the scent of burnt wood and charred flesh and fur was all-pervading. Matt wondered how long that dreadful smell would linger like a shroud. In the center of the hall, the ceiling opened up to allow a strange-looking tree to rise, far above their heads. The only trees he knew were live oaks, cedars, and mesquite, so he couldn't tell if it was more like a palm tree or a pine. But whichever, the thick, strangely barked trunk rose ten or fifteen feet before it branched into stubby limbs with delicate, greenish-gold palmated leaves. He looked at it curiously, but was more intrigued by the shape of another Lemurian seated on a stool at a small table nearby.
The creature sat completely still except for his tail, which swished slowly back and forth. Others stood around him, but it was clear that the short, powerfully muscled one with reddish-brown fur was who they attended. Matt wasn't startled to recognize him as the one he'd waved to before. Without hesitation, he strode forward, closely followed by his companions, and held his hand up once again in what was evidently a universal sign of greeting, even here. Adar positioned himself next to the seated figure who, Matt saw upon closer inspection, had been wounded many times. Numerous cuts and slashes were evident across his powerful frame, and they hadn't been bandaged. Instead, a clear, but slightly yellowish viscous fluid had been smeared into them. Matt wondered what it was, and he could almost feel Sandra's anxious desire to go to him and help. He wasn't sure the Lemurian needed any assistance.
For one thing, the dark eyes that held his seemed clear and focused and devoid of any distraction that excessive pain or fever might cause. Very solemnly, the creature raised its own hand and held it up in greeting. It spoke a few gravelly syllables and its mouth spread into a grin. Again, the expression went no further, but Matt sensed sincerity reflected in the dark pools of the Lemurian's eyes. The one named Adar gestured with evident respect.
"Keje-Fris-Ar," he said and bowed his head slightly. All the other Lemurians did the same. "U-Amaki ay Mi-Anakka ay Salissa," Adar added, and the dignity with which he spoke implied a lofty title.
"I expect he's the big bull around here," whispered Gray, more to the others than to Matt. "Other one's probably a witch doctor or pope or somethin'."
In spite of himself and the situation, not to mention the tension he felt just then, Matt almost burst out laughing at the Bosun's inappropriate comparison. "Chief," he said through clenched teeth, "are you trying to get us killed? If you are, I bet one more comment like that will do the job." Matt hadn't looked at him when he spoke, but Gray's voice sounded sincerely flustered.
"Uh . . . sorry, Skipper. But, I mean, we could recite nursery rhymes and they wouldn't know the difference."
"No, but we would, and I doubt they'd react well if we all started laughing right when they're naming their gods or something. So put a lid on it!"
"Oh . . . oh!! Aye, aye, Skipper!"
"They are quite incredibly ugly," commented Jarrik-Fas, Keje's kinsman and head of Salissa Home's active Guard. He spoke quietly to Adar while the two groups regarded one another. "They have almost no fur and their skins look pale and sickly."
Adar replied from the corner of his mouth. "They looked beautiful enough yesterday when they helped drive off the Grik. Do you not agree?"
Jarrik grunted, but there was agreement in the sound. "The gri-kakka were welcome, too, while they devoured our enemies. But we'd not have wanted them to linger overlong."
"True, but had they remained, there's no question the gri-kakka would have done so in hopes of devouring us as well. Here there is that question. If the Tail-less Ones desired to devour us, they could have done so already with the power they possess. Yet they come peacefully before us."
"Not un-armed, though," observed Jarrik. "I don't know what those things are that some of them carry, but they must be weapons. And yet they give the Sign of the Empty Hand while their hands are not empty."
Adar was silent, thinking. He knew Keje was listening to the words of his two most trusted advisors, even as he watched their visitors. "That's true," Adar said, "but perhaps among their kind, the sign is more a figurative thing than a literal one. Perhaps it means their hands are empty toward us but not toward all."
"And perhaps the sign means something else to them entirely," grumbled Keje, speaking for the first time. "But the one who seems to be their leader has an empty hand, and it's with him I must find some way to speak. Besides, would you have gone unarmed with me to their ship, Jarrik?"