The Pacifists

Parker was a trouble maker wherever they landed. But here was the planet ideal, a chance he had awaited a long, long time—easy, like taking candy from a baby....
Like a lone sentinel, the house stood apart at the edge of the village, a white cube with no windows. The door stood open, a dark hole against the white brick. The house was silent. The village beyond was silent.
They must have seen us land, Compton said, a little wildly. You can't set down a rocket ship a hundred yards from somebody and not have them notice. They must have seen us!
Unless no one lives here, Parker amended. This may be a ghost city.
He's right, Hinckley agreed. There might not be anyone living here, or anyplace on the planet for that matter. We've found very little life in these alien star-systems, and it's varied from primitive to ancient. Perhaps this society became old and died before any of us were born.
The three Earthmen stood at the base of the spaceship, their spacesuit headpieces thrown back so they could breathe in the cool thin air. They stood there peering into the deathly stillness.
I hope there are people living here, Parker said. It's been more than a month now—
Well, Hinckley said, let's find out. He waved them forward.
They were fifty feet from the house when a woman appeared in the doorway with a silver vase. She was dressed in a grey flowing robe that covered her from neck to ankles.
A young woman, Hinckley breathed, staring. A woman just like any on Earth!
His voice was loud in the silence, but the woman took no notice. She stooped and began filling the vase with sand. The two men with Hinckley shifted anxiously, settling the sand beneath their boots. Behind them the great spaceship pointed its nose at the sky.
Parker was staring intently at the girl. I'm going to like this place, he said slowly.