Silence in their minds for an instant, then:
Have you seen the blood pits?
Luther Shreve felt as though he were being dragged down into a whirlpool. He didn't know why it was suddenly so important to him that he help the Diamoraii. There was certainly no sense of brotherhood with the aliens. But he knew, on a level that defied all doubt, that he must save these people, or never feel at peace with himself again.
Behind him, Shreve heard Teller snort in disgust. The psych officer took two quick steps forward, jerked his head toward the massive bulk of the Wallower. "Children! That's all they are. They think those masks protect them from evil, they think their blind arrogance will protect them if trouble comes! They think they know better than us! They don't know when they need help. Come on, Luther, leave them if that's what they want!" He turned to go, his face flushed in anger.
Shreve looked back at the aliens. He searched the blank and grotesque masks for some evidence of willingness to reason. There was none. Shreve gritted his teeth in frustration; he wanted to help, he wanted to save them—but they wouldn't let themselves accept his help. The aliens didn't want to be saved. They stood there, tall, impassive, the thought radiating unendingly:
Go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go.
Luther Shreve stepped toward them, anger boiling hot in his brain. "All right, damn you! If you're too stupid, or too swollen up with your own importance to realize you need help, we'll help you despite yourselves!"
Why do you think the Kyben left Diamore?
Shreve's words stopped before they could be spoken. His fury checked itself. He hadn't considered that. Why had another race, one that could decimate a planet as the blood pits indicated they could, leave when they seemed to be on the verge of getting what they wanted?