If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, as it now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.
Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair to strip them of their world, but the first law was survival.
But how could primitives do what these must have done?
He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made of cemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfully laminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no human hand had been able to do for centuries.
"Beautiful primitive work," he muttered.
Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. "You can see a lot more of it out there," she suggested.
He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things were squatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship. They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what? For the return of their leader—or for something that would give the ship to them?
Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. "How's the captive coming?"
Barker's voice sounded odd.
"Physically fine. You can see him. But—"