"You want me to come with you, is that it?" he said. "Is your friend hurt? How did it happen?"
The screen refocused. Now Woodward saw the injured "man" more closely, saw the face blue in the moonlight, saw the lacerations on his cheek and forehead. Then the "camera" traveled downwards, towards the ribs, almost as if it were exploring the extent of the injuries for diagnosis (later, he learned this was true).
"Well, come on," he said gruffly. He took his coat and instrument bag from the hall closet, and shut the door on Panacea's hysteria. When he was outside with his visitor, he saw his face for the first time. Then he knew that the face he had seen in the tiny screen hadn't merely looked blue in the moonlight. It was blue. A smoky, almost lavender blue. Those who came to hate the aliens described it as purple, but Borsu, his dying companion, and all the aliens who followed were blue-skinned.
Woodward was in a fever of excitement by the time he reached the scene of the crash, in the woods some five hundred yards from his home. He understood its significance by now, knew that the fallen vessel had been some kind of space craft, that its dual occupants were visitors from another world. The fact that he had been first on the scene thrilled him; the fact that he was a doctor, and could help, gratified him.
But there was nothing in his black bag which could aid the crash victim. His black-pupiled eyes rolled in the handsome blue head, and his fine-boned blue hand reached for the touch of his companion's fingers in a gesture of farewell. Then he was dead.
"I'm sorry," Woodward said. "Your friend is gone."