"Naturally," the Leader said emotionlessly, "you required a whole shelter unit to yourself. We had to dispose of the ten who previously had the unit."
Barnhart swallowed. "Couldn't you think of anything less drastic? Next time just build a new unit."
"But master," the alien protested, "it takes a great deal of work to construct our units. Our lumber escapes so badly no matter how often we beat it into submission. Our work capacity is limited, as you are aware. Is it really desirable to overwork us so much?"
The captain was a little shocked. Was this humorless, methodical android really protesting a command from his Master? "How do you suppose the ten you are putting in status feel about it?" he managed.
"They would doubtlessly prefer not to be overworked. Our fatigue channels can only stand so much."
But it wasn't the work, Barnhart suddenly knew. It was the idea that there could be eleven houses, instead of ten. The concept of only ninety quronos and a master must be only slightly less hideous to them. They couldn't really be so overjoyed to see him.
A third rocket jarred off, rising unsteadily but surely in the low gravity. It was a fairly primitive device—evidently all they retained from the original model supplied them by the Master.
Barnhart looked at the figures on the ground. Only seven.
"The ones in status go into the rockets!" Barnhart gasped.
"And circle in the proper orbits," the Leader agreed.