The Diamoraii had advanced on the ship. They were almost humanoid. Tall—almost six and a half feet each with very long legs and boney, knobbed knees. Their legs seemed to represent almost half their bodies. Wide-shouldered, V-shaped chests; obviously large-lunged. Otherwise, despite the wide-spaced, large-irised eyes, they were almost humanoid.
As Shreve and Teller watched, they each donned a hideous devil-mask.
"Ugh!" Shreve blurted, his face drawing up into a picture of agony. "What ghastly greeting cards those are! If that's a sample of their demonology, I'd hate to see them exorcising one of the poor devils: probably frighten the thing to life!"
Teller was leaning closer to the screen, his small eyes watching the twelve with undisguised fascination. He was talking more to himself than his superior. "Must be religious symbols of some sort. Must have put on their Prayer-day best just to come see us."
Shreve looked at Teller sharply. "You don't suppose they think we're gods or something?"
Shaking his head in annoyance, Teller replied, "No, no, certainly not. You can tell they don't! They haven't prostrated themselves or offered up sacrifices or such, as the typical superstitious aborigine would. No, I'm quite certain they don't deify us. Probably just insuring that evil spirits don't try to interfere with their mission—whatever that might be. But," he added, "it doesn't appear to be dangerous, whatever it is."
The twelve were now capering and turning handsprings directly under the plate's hull-pickups. Shaking their masks into the cameras. They seemed unaware that anyone might be watching.
"Ritual," murmured Teller.
As though his identification of it had tired them of their actions, they sat—almost as one. Cross-legged, arms akimbo, expressions stolidly hidden by the grotesque shapes of their devil-masks, they waited. Again, almost to the second, they removed their hands from their hips and folded them across their massive chests.