Shreve looked at the tight semi-circle of aliens, then at Teller. He licked his lips anxiously. It was apparent he was happier, now that he had landed and felt he could help the Diamoraii.
"Well, what should we do, Karl? This is more in your line. Should we go out and talk to them, or bring them inside? Do you think they're aware of the coming eruptions?" The questions had come out on top of one another, with an almost childlike anxiety.
It was odd to hear such a tone from the otherwise stolid Shreve. Teller looked up in surprise. He smiled slowly.
The psych officer flipped his plate off, turned, crossing his arms as the aliens had done, and sat on the dead console.
"I don't think they know what's happening down there, Luther. At least," he amended, "they didn't appear to be preparing for evacuation in the threatened areas when we went over them. So I rather suspect they're waiting for us to come out and chat." He shrugged his shoulders, staring at Shreve. "And that, my Captain, is it."
Shreve looked back at the aliens in his plate. He nodded his head with determination, and his face lit up with purpose. Teller had seen the look once or twice before—never on routine commercial ventures, however. He had labeled it missionary zeal.
The Diamoraii were still sitting in cross-legged squats, their knees up about their mask's pointed ears and horned temples.
"Well, then I suppose we'd better go out and chat. The sooner we set up the Stress Rectifiers, the better." He got up, stepped toward the shaft.
"Oh," he said, stopping and turning back to the psych officer, "I'd like you to come out with me, Karl. No orders, you understand, but I'd appreciate it."
The short psychologist looked at him for a moment, nodded his head in acceptance. Shreve stepped into the shaft and sank down through the floor as the tube glowed. Teller looked at the empty shaft for a moment. As the platform slipped back into place he flipped Shreve's plate off.