He'd ferried me down to the hilltop in the long shadows of early morning. I'd had to order him to return to the star ship. I stood now beside the communal mound. Moya had said, pointing down the hill, anger making him illogical: "These are the people you sold out when you transferred to Interstel. They could have used your kind of brains. Post-mortems aren't going to help them, now."
It was simple, wasn't it?
Something on E-T was a killer: quick and deadly.
If it got any sort of clean shot at you—
Something visible. Something big enough to make a mark. And not static, like a thorn. A ground crawler? My pant's legs had been tucked securely into my boot tops. A flier? It would have to be strong enough to pierce a GS uniform and make an entrance into flesh. Or to leave a scratch from a glancing blow. And I hadn't seen anything.
But only a recent problem.
And restricted to the area beyond the stream.
And random.
And terribly innocent. Innocent enough to be overlooked until it was too late.
Think.