The Martian stood motionless.
"Pick—it—up, you stupid lout!"
Larkin—now beyond sanity—was gibbering in the grave.
The Martian understood. With a glad little whimper, he bent over and took the cigar butt in his hand.
"There," Cleve said. "Garbage can! Get it? Garbage can. Place for trash—for cigar butts. Put it in there."
Smith wasn't sure whether the grin deepened or not. He thought it did, as the Martian laid the cigar butt carefully into the trash can.
"Okay, you fella," Cleve barked, still scowling. "Back and away now. Stay out there! Get it? Only come when you're called."
It took a few eloquent gestures, including the pantomime of swinging a whip, before the Martian understood and complied. After he backed into the circle of his fellows, Cleve dropped the cruel overseer manner and turned with satisfaction to Larkin. "I think there will be no trouble at all," he said. "Tomorrow we'll really get down to cases. I predict smooth sailing."
They said goodnight to each other and went about the business of preparing for slumber. As he raised the glowing flap of his tent, Larkin saw Smith lounging in a chair before the electric heat unit. "Aren't you going to get some sleep?"