The Huddlers

He was a reporter from Venus with an assignment on Earth. He got his story but, against orders, he fell in love—and therein lies this story.
That's what we always called them, where I come from, huddlers. Damnedest thing to see from any distance, the way they huddle. They had one place, encrusting the shore line for miles on one of the land bodies they called the Eastern Seaboard. A coagulation in this crust contained eight million of the creatures, eight million .
They called it New York, and it was bigger than most of the others, but typical. It wasn't bad enough living side by side; the things built mounds and lived one above the other. Apartments they called them. What monstrosities they were.
We couldn't figure this huddling, at first.
All our attention since Akers' first penetration into space had been directed another way in the galaxy, and though I'll grant you unified and universal concentration may be considered unwise in some areas, it's been our greatest strength. It's brought us rather rapidly to the front, I'm sure you'll agree, and we're not the oldest planet, by a damned sight.
Well, by the time we got to the huddlers, Akers was dead and Murten was just an old man with vacant eyes. Jars was handling the Department, though you might say Deering ran it, being closer to most of the gang. Jars was always so cold; nobody ever got to know him really well.
They divided on the huddling. Fear, Jars said, and love, Deering said, but who could say for sure?
As Deering said to me, What could they fear? They've got everything they need, everything but knowledge and their better specimens are getting closer to that, every day.
In the laboratory, Deering said this, and how did we know old Jars was in a corner, breaking down a spirigel?
They fear each other, Jars said, as though it was an official announcement, as though any fact is permanent. And they fear nature. It's the most fear ridden colony of bipeds a sane mind could imagine.