"I'm leaving the battle buggy now, and Ears and I are approaching the thing. I have no fear of it, really. I'm ... curious. What makes these things go off? This, fellers, is a physical phenomenon, developed by human beings—"
"Martians," corrected Lindsay.
"They're classified as human," snapped Grant. "And a lot of them are more human than the pure-white Terran. Spinach, I call it. Anyway, there is a simple explanation for all this and when it is uncovered, all of your rantings and ravings will go to pieces like a bit of charred paper. Call it telepathy if you want—I'm not discounting though I'm skeptical—but I don't feel any warnings yet."
Jenna sat down, closed her eyes, and composed her body into a relaxed pose. She said nothing. Lindsay noted, and said: "Keep it coming, Grant."
"Well," said Grant, "we're at the critical hundred feet, Ears and I. Come here, mutt! That thing is dangerous! Dog doesn't care, folks. Y'know, there's nothing like having a mutt around to teach you faith. Jenna?"
She opened her eyes. "Yes?"
"I'm going in! You're Martian and you're sensitive. Maybe you can catch the backwash if there's any mental shenanigans."
"I'll try."
"Believe it now?" called Lindsay.
"Not entirely. But I'm not missing any bets. Now, I am taking my little hatchet in one hand and I'm going out to ... Jenna! You—!"