The shorter man was clutching his jaws with both hands, biting his lower lip and rocking back and forth, eyes half-closed.
"Karl," Shreve's tongue stumbled over the words in his pain, "they're—migod, Karl—they're telepathic!"
They stood rooted in their tracks, staring at the twelve impassive aliens in their grotesque masks.
Teller stared in open fascination, still clutching his head. "The first," he murmured in awe. "The very first! They always said someday we'd meet them, and now, by God, we have!" His voice died off to a whisper and he stared unblinking at the dark-skinned Diamoraii.
The words appeared in their minds once more—this time more firm, tinged with impatience:
Who are you?
Shreve seemed unable to respond. He had thought them ignorant savages, on the verge of disaster, who would be jubilant at the offer of aid. Instead, he was faced with making contact; contact with the first mind-reading race Humanity had met racing through the stars. His throat tightened up, he could not speak.
Finally, he took a step forward, extended his hands in peace to the aliens. "Friends. We've come to help you. Friends."
He was certain they couldn't understand the spoken words. Whether or not they could decipher the thoughts—that was something else. Later, the Earthmen could bring out the communicators if the need arose. But for now, he wanted only the soothing good will in his voice to win them.