"We are telepaths, of course. On a planet which is nearly airless on its surface, we have to be. A tendency of the Terrestrial mind is to ignore the obvious. We have not had a spoken language of our own for several thousand years."
He darted a glance at Syme's darkly scowling face. His own hairy face was expressionless, but Syme sensed that he was amused. "Yes, you're right," he said. "The language you and your fellows struggled to learn is a fraud, a hodge-podge concocted to deceive you."
Tate looked interested. "But why this—this gigantic masquerade?"
"You had nothing to give us," the Martian said simply.
Tate frowned, then flushed. "You mean you avoided revealing yourselves because you—had nothing to gain from mental intercourse with us?"
"Yes."
Tate thought again. "But—"
"No," the Martian interrupted him, "revealing the extent of our civilization would have spared us nothing at your people's hands. Yours is an imperialist culture, and you would have had Mars, whether you thought you were taking it from equals or not."
"Never mind that," Syme broke in impatiently. "What do you want with us?"
The Martian looked at him appraisingly. "You already suspect. Unfortunately, you must die."