Instead, do we now perceive something like cautious calculation cross his features? Does he realize we have him cornered? Ro-kenn shrugs in a manner not unlike a human. “What shall be done, then? If we agree to your demands, how can we be certain these will not reappear anyway, to plague our descendants someday? Will you sell these records to us now, in return for our promise to go in peace?”

Now it is Lester who laughs. Turning half toward the crowd, he gestures with one hand. “Had you come after the Commons experienced another century or two of peace, we might have trustingly accepted. But who among us has not heard stories told by old-timers who were there when Broken-Tooth deceived Ur-xouna near False Bridge, at the end of the old wars? What human has not read moving accounts of some great-grandfather who escaped the slaughter at Truce Gorge, during the Year of Lies?”

He turned back to Ro-kenn. “Our knowledge of deceit comes self-taught. Peace was hard-won — its lessons not forgotten.

“No, mighty Rothen. With apologies, we decline simply to take you at your word.”

This time a mere flick of one slender hand holds back the outraged Rann, checking another outburst. Ro-kenn himself seems amused, although the strange dissonance once more cuts his visage.

“Then what guarantee have we that you will destroy these items, and not leave them in a place where they may be found by future tenants of this world? Or worse, by Galactic Institutes, as little as a thousand years from now?”

Lester is prepared with an answer.

“There is irony here, Oh mighty Rothen. If we, as a people, remember you, then we are still witnesses who can testify against your crime. Thus, if we retain memory, you have reason to act against us.

“If, on the other hand, we successfully follow the path of redemption and forgetfulness, in a thousand years we may already be like glavers, innocuous to you. No longer credible to testify. If so, you will have no cause to harm us. To do so would be senseless, even risky.”

“True, but if you have by that time forgotten our visit, would you not also forget the hiding places where you cached these images?” Ro-kenn holds up a plate. “They will lie in ambush, like lurker missiles, patiently awaiting some future time to home in on our race.”

Lester nodded. “That is the irony. Perhaps it can be solved by making a vow of our own — to teach our descendants a song — a riddle, as it were — something simple, that will resonate even when our descendants have much simpler minds.”

“And what function will this puzzle serve?”

“We will tell our children that if ever beings come from the sky who know the riddle’s answer, they must retrieve these items from sacred sites, handing them over to the star-lords — your own successors, Oh mighty Rothen. Naturally, if we Six retain detailed memory of your crime, we sages will prevent the hand-over, for it will be too soon. But that memory will not be taught to children, nor passed on with the same care as we teach the riddle. For to remember your crime is to hold on to a poison, one that can kill.

“We would rather forget how and why you ever came. Only then will we be safe from your wrath.”

It is an ornately elaborate bargain that Lester offers. In council he had been forced to explain its logic three times. Now the crowd mutters, parsing the idea element by element, sharing bits of understanding until a murmur of admiration flows like molten clarity around the circle of close-pressed beings. Indeed, the bargain contains inherent elegance.

“How shall we know that all the items will be accounted for in this way?” Ro-kenn asks.

“To some extent, you must trust to luck. You were gamblers coming on this mission in the first place, were you not, mighty Rothen? I can tell you this. We have no grand desire to have these images arrive across the ages for Institute lawyers to pore over, looking for reasons to punish our own species-cousins, still roaming the stars. In their hardness and durability, these plates are an insult to our own goal on this world, to be shriven down to innocence. To earn a second chance.”

Ro-kenn ponders this.

“It seems we may have come to Jijo a few thousand years too soon. If you succeed in following your Path, this world will be a treasure trove.”

His meaning is not clear at first, then a mutter passes through the crowd, from urrish snorts to qheuenish hisses and finally booming hoonish laughter. Some are impressed by Ro-kenn’s wit, others by the implied compliment — that the Rothen would wish to adopt any presentient races that we Six might become. But that reaction is not universal. Some of those assembled seethe angrily, rejecting any notion of adoption by Ro-kenn’s folk.

Don’t we/i find this anger silly, my rings? Have client races any control over who becomes their patron? Not according to lore we’ve read.

But those books will be dust long before any of this comes to pass.

“Shall we swear oaths?” Ro-kenn asks. “This time based on the most pragmatic assurance of all — mutual deterrence?

“By this new arrangement, we shall depart in our ship, waiting only till our scout craft returns from its final mission, choking back whatever bitterness we feel over the foul murder of our comrades. In return, you all vow to forget our intrusion and our foolish effort to speak through the voice of your Holy Egg.”

“It is agreed,” replies Knife-Bright Insight, clicking two claws. “Tonight we’ll confer and choose a riddle whose secret key will be told to you. When next your kind comes to Jijo, may it be to find a world of innocents. That key will guide you to the hiding place. You may then remove the dross images. Our deal will be done.”

Hope washes over the crowd, striking our rewq as a wave of soft green tremors.

Can we credit the possibility, my rings? That the Six might live to see a happy ending? To the zealots this seems all that they desired. Their young leader dances jubilation. Now there will be no punishment for their violent acts. Rather, they will be known as heroes of the Commons.

What do you say, my ring?

Our second cognition-torus reminds us that some heretics might prefer that angry fire and plagues rid Jijo of this infestation called the Six. And yes, there is yet another, even smaller heretical fringe. Eccentrics who foresee our destiny lying in a different direction-scarcely hinted by sacred scrolls. Why do you bring this up, my ring? What possible relevance can such nonsense have, at this time and place?

Scribes write down details of the pact. Soon High Sages will be called to witness and assent. (Prepare, my lower rings!) Meanwhile, we ponder again the anomaly brought to our waxy notice by the rewq, which still conveys vexing colors from Ro-kenn. Could they be shades of deceit! Deceit and amusement! Eager gladness to accept our offer, but only in appearance, buying time until—

Stop it, we command our second ring, which gets carried away all too easily. It has read too many novels. We do not know the Rothen well enough to read subtle, complex meanings in his alien visage.

Besides, don’t we have Ro-kenn trapped? Has he not reason to fear the images on those plates of hard metal? Logically, he dare not risk them being passed on to incriminate his race, his line.

Or does he know something we do not?

Ah — what a silly question to ask, when pondering a star-god!

While hope courses the crowd, i/we grow more nervous by the dura. What if they care nothing about the photographs? Then Ro-kenn might agree to anything, for it would not matter what vows were signed, once his almighty ship arrives. From that point on, with his personal safety assured…

…

we never get a chance to complete that dripping contemplation. For suddenly, something new happens! Far too quickly for wax to ooze.