And Gant twisted. He palmed the younger man with two deft blows, throat and plexus. Saxon slumped, retching. Gant stood above him, his smile strained.
"Amateur," he panted. "I was instructing hand tactics before you were born." He took out his blaster. "They've infected you," he said compassionately. "I'm sorry, lad. You'll get a posthumous decoration."
The blaster came up, steadied. Then Gant stood very still, a white-haired statue.
Mentor came around the ship and helped Saxon to his feet.
"Destroying guests is forbidden," the robot clicked. "The concept is irrational."
Later, in the shadows of the farmhouse that was not a farmhouse, Saxon watched the scout disappear into the sky. He turned towards Veena. "You're letting him go?"
"Mentor—treated him," she said dreamily. "He'll report that you destroyed the colony, died in the process, and this planet is unfit for further colonization. Incidentally, the council voted in the affirmative. Otherwise you'd be with Gant."
Aliens, playing a game with their ape-brother. Recognizing him at first glance, speaking his language, making him feel wanted, at home.
Why?