But Henig wasn't sure. He had too little specific data: the courage of one female, the chanted songs of a radio program. And, of course, the lonely isolation of the logical life he lived. But to throw that in as a factor was to argue emotionally—on an animal level—himself.
As he turned down a side road into the oil field, the program of music ended and Henig heard a brief news summary. It was predominantly a report of a developing war. Now that made sense. That was the sort of emotional behavior Henig expected from an animal world. But how could they sing love chants while they simultaneously prepared to slaughter each other?
At the end of the broadcast the newscaster mentioned the discovery of two brutally mutilated bodies behind a mountain garage. "An alleged eye-witness is held by the police. He claims to have seen a strange animal approach the victims shortly before the murder." The announcer repeated a very accurate description of Henig—which, he said, tallied with no species known to zoology.
To Henig that statement was incomprehensible. The computers couldn't be that wrong. They were objective, logical machines, processing the information submitted by the mechanical observers. The computers said Henig resembled a native species. That much had to be true. The conclusion that he would be able to pass unnoticed on the alien planet might be faulty for lack of emotional data. But the newscaster claimed no such species existed!
The Lieutenant hid his vehicle in a copse of trees close to the deserted side road. He slid off the seat, glad to escape the cramped position behind the wheel. As he walked toward the oil field, his wound began to pain him again. With his tongue he worked the small capsule loose from the back of his mouth—the only place where he could conceal it, since the computers had decreed that he come naked to this world.
He stooped beside a sump and watched the black earth filter slowly through the membrane into the capsule. In his own mind Henig had no doubt that the petroleum resources here were economically worth exploitation. He thought, for a moment, of the brutal occupation by the empire fleet—the slaughter and the destruction, before the survivors could be herded into prison reservations.
The killing and the burning of their primitive cities didn't disturb him. The aliens were animals. Because of their biological evolution, they would never achieve a higher social level. They were eternally tied to emotion, and a logical civilization was beyond their mentality. To wipe them out meant no more to Henig than the extermination of a germ colony or a nest of vermin.
Still the particular emotion dominating these bipeds was unique. It was worth preserving—if that emotion actually existed; if he were reading the data correctly. The Lieutenant still didn't know; he still couldn't make up his mind.
The test earth seeped slowly into the capsule. Henig raised his eyes and studied the field. It was dark and the skeletal shafts of the oil derricks were silhouetted against the glow of the city lights. The hairless bipeds had developed the field extensively. Two or three generations ago, Henig thought enviously, the planet must have been enormously rich in oil if, after so much native exploitation, it was still worth an empire invasion.