They did not even bother answering. He knew their acquaintance with the truth that men of other worlds had offered. To be defeated because those who need your help had been spoiled by another race!
The bitterness, the hatred, the distrust, washed over him, as the Diamorai leaned across his beast's neck, thought one snarled word: Go.
Shreve felt the futility of everything he had done, suddenly caving in on him. He looked up into the blank stares of the masked aliens, said slowly, "We will hang above your atmosphere till you call us."
He walked back to the Wallower. The huge plug-port closed behind him. The aliens sat astride their beasts, staring at the ship.
Their minor-key whoops of victory rang and bounced in the jungle's treetops as they swung their mounts roughly, dug boney knees into their sides, and careened into the multi-colored vastness.
The Diamoraii had won again!
The Wallower spun slowly in space, the eternal dust of the universe lapping at her ports. Below her, enveloped by clouds of steam, the planet Diamore blasted and erupted and screamed and belched and tore itself apart.
Luther Shreve sat before the control console, staring with almost hypnotized attention at the view-plates. He watched the world die.
His face was hard and unyielding. He had refused entrance even to Teller, barring everyone from the control room.