I had thought, at first, that Limilt's comment about throwing tail-blades at the Andalites might be merely one of his attempts at humor; it certainly fit the pattern of willful absurdity. It seemed, though, that he was perfectly serious. To demonstrate, he led us halfway across the Refuge, to one of the largest of the northeastern till piles, and then knelt down and began digging through the rocks.
«What are you looking for?» said Kirinar.
Limilt, never one to explain himself until he was ready, ignored her. «There must be some here,» he murmured. «I know there are deposits in the Sub-Polar Islands; when the glaciers traveled south, they must have brought some… ah, here.» And he held up a jagged, gray-brown pebble.
I stared at it. «Chert?»
Limilt nodded. «I knew an old sculptor once who swore by it,» he said. «She specialized in clay busts of prominent Andalites, and she had a large array of chert tools that she used to carve the fine detail into the faces. You see, one can hardly use a tail-blade for that kind of work – unless one is a contortionist, that is – and chert has the advantage of being able to duplicate a tail-blade's sharpness quite nicely.»
The four of us glanced at each other as his implications sunk in. «You mean,» said Kirinar slowly, «that we could shape these stones into artificial tail-blades and… and launch them at the other Andalites from a great distance?»
«Why not?» said Limilt.
«But this is absurd,» I said. «Even the strongest of Andalites could only throw a stone a few hundred yards; we would be lucky to send it ten. If you were proposing a game of Impale-the-Morrimil, it might do well enough; as a plan of attack against a heavily defended Andalite base, it's sheer madness.»
Limilt hesitated. «You think so?»
«I'm quite certain of it.»
«Hmm.» Limilt kicked at the grass thoughtfully for a minute or two. «Well, I suppose that spoils my idea, then. If only there was some way of propelling an object a great distance without having to rely on one's arm muscles…»
I chuckled. «Like the jets on space-exploration vessels, you mean? No, I hardly think that attaching rockets to chert blades would be practical – and, in any event, none of us have the technical expertise to build them. The only thing I can think of that could even theoretically work would be some exploitation of tensile force.»
Limilt glanced at me with interest. «Tensile force?»
«You must be familiar with it,» I said. «Every physics tutor in the world uses it as an example of stored energy. You take a cord of some kind and stretch it taut across a wooden frame; then you take a small rod with a notch in the end and slip it onto the string, and then draw the string back until…»
«Ah, yes, I remember,» said Limilt with a laugh. «And then you release the string, the rod flies through the air and breaks your stepfather's newest piece of glass sculpture, and your mother confines you to the scoop for the next century.»
«Precisely.»
Limilt nodded. «Yes, I can see how that would work,» he said. «The rods could be tipped with chert to make them into blades – yes, it could work quite well. It's only a pity that we don't have the necessary materials to make the cord.»
«But we do,» I said. «There are chikinee plants growing throughout the Refuge; extracting the fiber from them would be a simple enough matter for…»
I trailed off, realizing the trap that Limilt had laid for me. But it was too late; triumph was gleaming in the little humorist's eyes. «Well,» he said, «it seems there is a way out of our difficulty, after all. Thank the Powers for science – and for Garatron-Sitek-Shaveer, whose upbringing has so superbly equipped him to design weapons of warfare.»
«Limilt…» I began.
Then I caught a glimpse of Shisken's face, and realized the futility of further protest. Even I, obtuse as I was in such matters, could read the expression in her eyes; she was already envisioning herself flinging chert-tipped rods at the Andalite oppressors, and no amount of rational argument would deter her.
I looked around at the others. Berel's expression, of course, hadn't changed, but I saw no reason to doubt that he would support the scheme – and Kirinar's dominant emotion, so far as I could read it in her face, seemed to be reluctant admiration of Limilt's ingenuity. No, there was no point in attempting to argue the project down. Better to accede for now, and let the frustrations of practical engineering (of which Grandfather had so often spoken) dampen everyone's enthusiasm for the theory on their own.
«Very well,» I said. «Kirinar, I suggest that you help Limilt find and sharpen the chert nodules. Shisken and Berel can gather chikinee and branches for the rods, and I will see about designing a workable frame.»
Limilt dipped his tail in the ritual gesture of obeisance. «We are indeed fortunate, we of the Selicar,» he said, «to have such a wise and clement leader as the illustrious Prince Garatron.»
«Tell it to the saltuar, Limilt,» I said privately. (5)
(5)
«"Tell it to the saltuar"?» Tobias repeated. «What's that mean?»
«Um.» Ax lowered his eyes, and shuffled his hooves awkwardly. «It means … that is, in a sense, it… ah… well, roughly speaking, it means "Don't call me prince".»
«Ah.» Had he been in human form, Tobias would have smirked. «Gotcha.»