Four Martians climbed grinning from the trench. They faced Larkin and stood as though awaiting instructions.
"Dig there," Larkin said.
They went stolidly to work and Larkin pocketed his gun, making the pocketing a gesture of contempt.
"You see," Cleve said, with the tone of one explaining an abstract problem, "we were at somewhat of a disadvantage because they are incapable of indicating emotion by facial expression. Thus the last test was necessary. If we could have judged the degree of fear previously instilled, that last might not have been necessary."
"Just as well to have a double check nonetheless," Dane said. "Look at them! You'd think nothing out of the ordinary had happened."
Larkin strode back to the table. "Glad we got it over with," he said. "Now we know. Cleve can head back for Earth tomorrow. Initial supplies will come to about twenty million, I estimate. The rest of us can stay here and really drive these beggars. Get the foundations dug; get the rock down from the hills."
"A planet in glorious resurrection," said Dane, the poet of the group.
"They've got the grave dug," Cleve observed. "They're waiting for orders."
"Such cattle," Evans muttered.
Larkin strode back to the grave. He pointed. "Him—body into the grave. Snap into it. We've got work to do."