They walked on.
They entered another clearing, and found themselves in the midst of a group of naked savages, obviously Al-fin's people.
"Where did they come from?" Saxton asked, resting his hand on the grip of his gun.
Wallace looked his way and shook his head. "No guns," he said. "We'll have to take the chance that they're friendly."
Most of the members of the group, Wallace observed, were lying on the ground, or idling about at the edges of the small clearing. He counted twenty-three—of both sexes, and varying ages. There was no sign of clothing or ornament on any of them. They were naked, filthy, and nondescript; yet each had the mark of that quality that had puzzled them in Al-fin—the deep inner assurance. A few glanced their way, but without any evidence of an unusual degree of interest.
Their attention returned to Al-fin. Streaks of sweat had made gray trails on his grimy face, and he gave off an odor that was sharp and rancid. He sat on the ground and motioned for Wallace and Saxton to do the same.
Wallace hesitated, then spread his hands resignedly. "This is a strange game," he said. "We'll let him make the first moves." He and Saxton sat down together.
Al-fin began speaking, without inflection and with few pauses. Some of the individual words sounded faintly familiar, but the two men could make no sense of what he said.
"I'm afraid we can't understand you," Wallace told him. In an aside to Saxton he said, "He won't understand me either, but I don't think we'd better ignore him."