Campbell didn't say anything for a minute. He sat down on the hide-frame cot and ran his fingers through his black hair.
"Tell me, Father," he said quietly, grimly.
The Kraylen's white crest rippled in the lamplight. "It is not your fight."
Campbell got up. "Look. You've saved my neck more times than I can count. You've accepted me as one of your own. I've been happier here than any—well, skip that. But don't say it isn't my fight."
The pale, triangular old face smiled. But the white crest shook.
"No. There is really no fight. Only death. We're a dying tribe, a mere scrap of old Venus. What matter if we die now—or later?"
Campbell lit a cigarette with quick, sharp motions. His voice was hard. "Tell me, Father. All, and quick."
Opalescent eyes met his. "It is better not."
"I said, 'tell me'!"
"Very well." The old man sighed. "You would hear, after all. You remember the frontier town of Lhi?"