"I hadn't been expecting you, gentlemen, to be perfectly honest," the little man clucked, then: "Oh dear, see what you've done to Mr. Bellefont's park. I do hope you haven't hurt him—no, I see that he is all right."
Captain Webber followed the direction of the man's eyes and perceived an old man with red hair seated at the base of a tree, apparently reading a book.
"We are from Earth," said Captain Webber.
"Yes, yes."
"Let me explain: my name is Webber, these are my men."
"Of course," said the little man.
Mr. Chitterwick came closer, blinking. "Who is this that knows our language?" he asked.
"Who—Greypoole, Mr. Greypoole. Didn't they tell you?"
"Then you are also from Earth?"
"Heavens yes! But now, let us go where we can chat more comfortably." Mr. Greypoole struck out down a small path past scorched trees and underbrush. "You know, Captain, right after the last consignment something happened to my calendar. Now, I'm competent at my job, but I'm no technician, no indeed: besides, no doubt you or one of your men can set the doodad right, eh? Here we are."