I beckoned over Frieder – still officially my apprentice, though clearly he now had age and experience – to have him explain.

“When Earthlings first contacted demmies, they were already using clever, hand-made rockets to reach their nearest moon. They were immensely nimble artisans. But, like some early human tribes, they still had no word for any number higher than three! Although demmies now contribute some of the finest mathematical minds, they still cling – as you just saw – to some older traditions… for example, in informal conversation, any number higher than three is still – ‘many’.”

“Okay, I get that.” The local sage nodded. Only then, blinking rapidly, Ping persisted.

“But… but what is she doing?”

Concentrating soberly, Nota Taken continued chanting.

“Many… Many… Many…”

I had to sigh.

“Professor. It’s a count-down.”

“A… count… down? You mean counting off by stating aloud the remaining seconds before an event? We have the same concept. But… but… I fail to see how…”

I held up a hand for patient silence and got it. As the various demmies gathered closer, we humans and others hung back as far as could be done in a seemly fashion, putting on sunglasses or holding up clipboards or jackets, in preparation. Nervously, the locals imitated our precautions. Fu Tichi used one of the abandoned priest robes. Cuspitui yowled in nervous curiosity. The Spertins, though, looked just about ready to piss themselves. Knowing what to expect, they would have bolted, but for Lorg, holding their leashes.

Tension rose as the Lieutenant Commander sang:

“Many… many… many… THREE… TWO… ONE… blast!”

And suddenly, brightness rocked us backward. A searing bolt of actinic brilliance shot downward from the sky, parallel to the mighty slurry transport tube, which was also gurgling and flowing at the same time. A sooty smell of vaporized earth and vegetation billowed around us, briefly filling the air, as a giga-terrawatt laser cut away surgically at the soil, right in front of us.

Lest anyone think that all my years with them have made me demmie-loco, be assured that for a moment I felt just like the Spertins. I did not want to be standing there, relying utterly upon the skilled competence of the weapons crew aboard ship, depending on that competence, and demmie luck, and their essential goodness to compensate for their species’ fourth salient trait – certifiable insanity.

But I remained still, outwardly cool and confident. So did Frieder.

There’s a good lad. I expect I’ll be signing promotion papers for more than one grade, when we get back to civilization.

The terrible beam cut off abruptly. And when a swirling haze cleared, there lay in front of us a set of perfect, glassy steps leading down to a circular area where ornate chairs made of fused dirt surrounded a round, vitrified table, whose gleaming surface was inscribed with the sigil of the Federated Alliance of Worlds.