"Up here," said Vizqash.
They climbed a conical heap, the remains of a circular tower long fallen into a mass of rubble but affording a view of the whole area. The ruins extended to the river. A fortress or fortified camp, Barnevelt surmised…
"Here," said Vizqash, pointing to the remains of a statue thrice life size. The pedestal and one leg still stood, while among the rocks and boulders scattered about the base Barnevelt could make out a head, part of an arm, and other pieces of the statue. He remembered:
"What are you muttering?" said Eileen Foley.
"Sorry," said Barnevelt. "I was just remembering…" and he recited the sonnet.
Tangaloa said: "That's by those English blokes Kelly and Sheets, is it not? The ones who wrote The Mikado?"
Before Barnevelt had a chance to straighten out his colleague, Vizqash broke in: "You should know the great poem of our poet Qalle, about a ruin like this. It is called Sad Thoughts …"
"How about some tucker?" said Tangaloa. "That row has given me an appetite."
"It is called," said Vizqash firmly, "Sad Thoughts Engendered by Eating a Picnic Supper in the Moss-Covered Ruins of Marinjid, Burned by the Baalhibuma in the Year of the Awal, Forty-Ninth Cycle After Qarar."
Tangaloa said: "With all that title, I'm sure we shan't need…"
But the Krishnan burst into rolling, gutteral Gozashtandou verse, with sweeping Delsartean gestures. Barnevelt found that he could catch perhaps one word in five.
Tangaloa said to Eileen Foley: "That's what we get for going out with a pair of bloody poetry enthusiasts. If you'd care to take a walk with me while they get it out of their systems, I'm sure I can find some more entertaining…"
At that moment Vizqash ran down, saying: "I could go on for an hour, but that gives you the idea."
He then elected himself chef and rummaged for dry wood. Although his pile of twigs did not look promising, he picked some weedy plants with pods. He broke these open and shook a fine yellow dust onto his heap of sticks.
"The yasuvar. We use this powder for fireworks," he explained.
He got out a small cylinder with a piston that fitted closely into it and bore a large knob at its upper end. From a small box he shook a pinch of tinder into the cylinder, inserted the piston into the open end of the cylinder, and smote the knob with his palm, driving the piston down into the cylinder.
"I like these better than those mechanical flint-and-steel lighters such as the one you bought," he said. "There is less to get out of order."
He took the piston out of the cylinder and shook smoldering tinder onto the fire. The fragments lighted the yellow powder, which blazed up with crackling sounds and ignited the rest.
Meanwhile Eileen Foley laid out the contents of the basket. From among these, Vizqash took a package wrapped in waxed paper. When the paper was unwrapped, there came into view four jointed creatures something like small crabs and something like large spiders.
"This," said Vizqash, "is a great delicacy."
Barnevelt, gulping, felt Tangaloa's amused eyes upon him. The Samoan ate everything; but he, Barnevelt, had never developed the catholicity of taste that marks the true traveler. However, he controlled his features; they might have to eat odder things yet. If he had thought of this aspect of interplanetary exploration sooner, though, he might have put up a stouter resistance to the project.
"Fine," he said with a weak smile. "How long will they take?"
"Five or ten minutes," said Vizqash. He had fitted together a wire grill so that his four bugs were inclosed between the two grids. They sizzled and sent up a sharp smell as he toasted them.
From the direction of the road, a dozen flying creatures rocketed up out of the shrubbery with hoarse cries. Barnevelt idly watched them fly away, wondering if some prowling carnivore had disturbed them. The small animal noises seemed to have died down again.
"Vizqash," he said, "are you sure there are no more bandits around here?"
"Not for years," said the Krishnan, jiggling his grill over the fire and poking additional twigs into the flames. "Why do you ask?" he added sharply.
Tangaloa, aiming his Hayashi at bits of ruins, said: "Let's walk down towards the river, Dirk. There is some solid-looking masonary at the end of the lock."
"These will be ready soon," said Vizqash in tones of protest.
"We're not going far," said Tangaloa. "Call us when they're nearly done."
"But…" said Vizqash, in the manner of one who struggles to put his wishes into words.
Tangaloa started for the river, and Barnevelt followed. They picked their way among the rocks to the north end of the ruin, on the top of a low bluff sloping down to the water. Near the line of the boundary wall stood a big slab, half sunk in the earth and leaning drunkenly, its face covered with half-obliterated carvings.
Tangaloa shot a few centimeters of film, saying: "In a couple of hours the sun will bring out these carvings…"
Barnevelt looked back toward the fire, and paused. Vizqash was standing up and waving an arm.
"I think he wants us…" Barnevelt said, and then realized that the Krishnan was waving his far arm as if beckoning to somebody on the other side, towards the road.
"Hey!" said Barnevelt. "Look, George!"
"Look at what?"
"What's that moving in that copse?"
"What? Oh, I suppose some local friends of his . . ."
A group of men had come out of the copse and were running up towards the fire. Vizqash was saying something to them. Barnevelt could hear his voice but could not make out the rush of Krishnan words.
"They don't look friendly to me," said Barnevelt. "We may have to fight or run."
"Nonsense, cobber. You're being romantic…"
All the men, including Vizqash, started running towards the two Earthmen, swords in hands, all but one who carried a bow instead.
"Blind me," said Tangaloa, "it does look like trouble!" He picked up a couple of softball-sized stones.
Barnevelt put his back to the wall and drew his sword. Although the blade came out with a satisfying wheep, it occurred to Dirk that reading a historical adventure story about a dauntless hero fighting with archaic weapons against desperate odds is by all means a more satisfactory occupation than trying to enact the role in person.
It also struck him that something was drastically wrong with the picture. Eileen Foley had been standing across the fire from Vizqash when he beckoned his friends out of the bushes. She had continued to stand there, without sign of alarm or excitement, as they ran past her, paying her no more heed than one person pays another in a subway crush. Now she was trailing them towards the river at a walk.
"Drop your sword!" cried Vizqash. "Put down those stones and you shall not be hurt!"
"What kind of picnic d'you call this?" asked Barnevelt.
"I said, give up your weapons! Otherwise we will kill you."
The men—nine counting Vizqash—halted out of reach of Barnevelt's blade. After all, he and his companion were both well over average Krishnan stature.