Parker felt his throat tighten. "What?" he said. "What?"
He looked up into eyes alive with hate. No, that was impossible. It was only imagination. Only imagination, yet for a moment—he laughed guiltily—he'd thought the man was looking directly at him.
Furiously, angry at himself, Parker forced the thought from his mind. He reached once more for the girl, but she shrank from his touch and leaped up. The Earthman followed her movement with startled, puzzled eyes, and then his bewilderment changed to a fear that held him with cold fingers.
The man had taken a long silver knife from beneath his robe, and he held it in his hands so that its blade reflected the cold blue fire. His face was a mask, not pleasant to see. And he was looking at the Earthman, seeing him, watching him, hating him.
A sudden flash of understanding came. These people had known all the time. They stayed indoors in dim light to enhance the illusion and watch with greater secrecy, so that the movement of eyes would not betray them—and they had waited. For what?
Parker leaped up with a hoarse cry and ran, not waiting to find out. He was in the doorway when the silver knife caught him and slid easily between his ribs and released the breath of life that lay hidden there. Before he struck the ground, he was a shell, with neither fear nor desire to trouble him.
For a long moment afterward, the man stood over the still body, looking down at it with a mixture of hate and disgust. The girl joined him. He looked at her and then at the sky.
"We must learn to make weapons again," he told her. "These creatures will be back, unsuspecting, thinking us helpless. Next time, we must be ready!"
Without ceremony, they buried the Earthman's body and then met others of their kind coming into the village streets. There was work to do.