In the morning the ghels were there. There were about a dozen of them, silently squatting in a semi-circle about his camp, contemplating him at a respectful distance with their soulful, gazelle eyes.
There is something disconcerting about waking up and finding that one has acquired uninvited guests, but Seeling never turned a hair. He reached over and grabbed his rifle, but the ghels never moved. They looked, for all the world, like purple-brown graven images squatting there, except that the round, black eyes blinked once in a while.
The ghel tongue was a very rudimentary one, and Seeling, who was naturally adept at such things, had studied it at some length during the weeks in Parthena. He felt that he could get along.
"I greet you," he said, still fondling his rifle. "I am an Earthman."
"We know," one of the ghels said in a curious, whistling voice. "What do you want here?"
"I come to see the city," George said.
"This is the sacred dead city of Solon Regh, the wisest of the ancient ones. We do not welcome visitors here."
"It's not your city, dammit," George said.
"What did you say?"
"Sorry, I said, this is not the work of your race. Why do you care if I look around?"