"No!" the Earthling cried, trying to reject the thought.
The full realization of what had happened struck him at once. Despite himself, he could picture Harding struggling, trying to convince these creatures that Earthlings don't shed their skins. His struggles must have convinced them only that he was having trouble shedding, so they "helped him." They had come to skin the natives, but the reverse was happening—only literally.
"Where—where is he?" he asked finally, though he knew it didn't really matter.
"We will take you to him," the interpreter said.
"No," Sheckly cried. "No, I—I'd rather not."
The serpentman nodded. "As you wish. He does not look pretty. I hope that tonight you do not have as much trouble."
Sheckly's eyes went wide. "What do you mean?"
"In your shedding," the serpentman explained. "We will try to help you all we can, of course."
"Of course," the Earthling agreed weakly, licking cottony lips. He wondered how he could just stand there so apparently calm, instead of letting out a shriek and running as fast as he could for the rocket ship. He decided it was some sort of paralysis, the shock of finding himself in the middle of something so alien his mind told him it couldn't possibly be.