Henig fingered the dash, looking for the ignition. The lettered symbols over the various dials meant nothing to him, since his telecommunicator was capable only of translating spoken words. The Lieutenant turned one dial and sound blared out at him. Music of a sort: this primitive, animal culture had been clever enough to discover a process for radio transmission.
For a second time the Lieutenant found himself unconsciously admiring the hairless bipeds. As inventions go, the internal combustion engine and radio were relatively insignificant. Yet this animal world had developed its technology without outside help and that suggested a brilliant science. Henig's empire had a vastly superior technology, but the scientists drew upon the ingenuity and inventive skill of a hundred united worlds and they had the tool of the logic computers.
Far more characteristic of a primitive world was the ignition lock. An animal society, trapped by uncontrolled emotion, would have no mutual trust. Their machines would have to be locked against theft. That was the emotional environment Henig had expected.
But then he thought of the female who had stuck by her mate, when it meant her own death. One jarring note, one violation of the predictable pattern: the more he considered it, the more it disturbed him. Was it typical of the way they all behaved?
The Lieutenant began to envy the illogic that made such affection possible. He thought of the mates he had been assigned from time to time by the psychological services. None of them, in a similar situation, would have tried to help him. Personal heroics were not a part of the computer civilization. He was suddenly conscious of the loneliness and the emptiness of scientific logic. These people—these pale, white-faced animals—had something better.
And that thought was heresy. In haste Henig broke the ignition lock and twisted the loose wires together so he could start the motor. The seat was designed for the bipeds, and it was most uncomfortable for him to drive the car. Fortunately he had only a short distance to go. The oil field selected for the test area was in the foothills, on the outskirts of the city.
The traffic was heavier as he approached the field, but it was nearly dark by that time and no one seemed to notice the Lieutenant slumped low behind the wheel of the stolen vehicle. Had the computers been right, he wondered? Did he resemble an animal species which lived at peace among the aliens? In that case, what accounted for the reaction of the three hairless things when they first saw him?
He had left the radio going, listening to the weird discord of the savage music. Sometimes a voice sang the melody and his telecommunicator gave him a conceptual analysis of the words. All the lyrics revolved around one theme: personal affection. Love was apparently the dominant trend of this culture. According to their music, they died for it, sighed for it, cried for it; no sacrifice was too great if it were made in the name of love.
Henig saw nothing trite in the wording. His logical mind limited his understanding to a strictly literal translation. He knew that an animal society was built upon emotion, but he had never before come across a primitive world where the focal point was love. Hate, greed, ambition, conflict, envy: those were typical and normal. The emphasis upon affection put this world in a special category.
The white-faced bipeds had discovered a bond stronger than all the logic of the empire. Because he was logical, the Lieutenant had to admit that to himself. If the empire came to exploit the oil resources, it would destroy something magnificent.