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Dawn with its gangrenous fingertips accosts the skies of Sirene as the dolorously fallacious mask of Kwangpard makes its appearance above decks. The slaves Racsa, Bonze and Haral peer up indolently from a desultory game of Rape Yer Granma. There is silence, save for the sea breeze. Kwangpard tests the wind with a wet forefinger, studies the inclination of the sails, and peers for several minutes at a compass of porphyry and fool's gold attached to the helm. At length, he seizes his hymerkin.
"Racsa," he clatters out, "Why does the vessel sail sideways?"
Racsa pulls at a shank of ceremonial durpa-hair attached to the forehead of his slavecloth. "A thousand and three cringing regrets, for the thoughtless eruction of an Ephemeral Butterfly in Zundar has affected the trim of this horrid salad-bowl of a houseboat."
Kwangpard rattles his hymerkin in rage. "Enough! Why do you not repair the deficiency?"
Racsa shrugs. "In all candor, I tire of keeping this vessel on course, and would prefer to embrace an existential modality of indolence and sloth. Bonze and Haral are in agreement." The two mentioned bob their heads eagerly.
In deep disgust, Kwangpard disappears below, returning with three red circles of cloth. The three slaves continue their game in disinterest, until the shocking crack of a whip passes their noses and scatters the cards. They jump up, bewildered. Kwangpard shouts roughly. "Your attitude has offended me; reparations must be effected! Affix at once these red cloths to your posterior regions."
The three slaves make no move until Kwangpard again belabors them vigorously with the whip, thus gaining their compliance. When the last target has been gluteally placed, Kwangpard cracks the whips sharply at the red targets, sending the Kirascene scampering and capering. "Ha now! Dance before my tingly flick! Livelier, livelier! Shift your buttocks nimbly, you dimbulbs!" Racsa, dazed with disbelief, finds himself climbing to a spar, there to dance with fear-whetted agility upon the narrow surface.
Kwangpard sings racuous couplets to the lash of his whip. "Winkle, Plinkle, Slaves do tinkle, Wet their brinkles, start to stinkle!" He abruptly sits down. "Heat whelms me; bring at once a tarpulin, buckets of cool water!" The dazed slaves obey. The tarp is held above his head, and the water poured over it to form a cooling shower...
Kwangpard wakes from a light doze and looks up, for standing before him, having boarded in haste, is the Welcome Rain. A whiffling noise behind him heralds the approach of Le Jaseroque.
"I am amazed!" cries the Rain, squeezing his stimic. "This is nothing resembling your normal behavior!"
"I likewise am curious as to your actions," burbles the Jaseroque.
As they speak, a fearsome chife assails their nostrils, as Bonze approaches distastefully with steaming plates of unmentionable food. "My honored guests!" proclaims Kwangpard. "Will you share my ahagaree, my chatowsies?"
The Welcome Rain starts back. "Does this mean --"
Kwangpard waves his hand expansively. "Yes! I grow weary of dissemblance! Let the truth be known! No Sirenese am I, but Darsh! I henceforth renounce foppish refinements for a life of comfort!"
"And what of Fane Rampad?" asks the Jaseroque.
"He has served his purpose - that of facilitating my exit from among the Sirenese. I head now for the vast uninhabited deserts below the southern equatorial regions of this planet, there to recreate my culture and spend my life in peace!"
"But how can you perpetuate the Darsh people here?" exclaims the Rain. "You have no women --"
"On the contrary," smiles Kwangpard, "Below in my map room I discovered a most enticing young kitchet. She is years from growing her moustache, and although she claims superlative healing powers, I much doubt that she will be able to restore a certain fold of flesh that I have rended from her. The map room is much too small for proper Darsh courtship; but this lack shall be remedied at our destination."
The Welcome Rain and the Jaseroque, lacking further remonstrations,
retire to their ship and return to Fan. Kwangpard meanwhile orders
yellow, green and blue concentric circles to be painted on the afterdeck.
"I yearn to play hadaul once more; practice must make challenging roblers
of you all!" he declares to his slaves...