"Closed world!" Rowley groaned. "We've only been here three months!"
"Eleven men in the field, Cliff. You're the odd ball. Everybody else is satisfied. Hume is only a step above savagery in culture. Top rating is satisfied. I don't like the conflicting picture of it, myself, but...."
"Nor I," Rowley stabbed. The look in his hazel eyes hardened.
"You wouldn't," Spliid said calmly, "even without seeing the reports. You're a percie, Cliff—our only psi-sensitive on Hume. But you've got to do a lot more than you've done yet to impress top rating. They're keener on the things you can't do than the things you can."
"A few more months, Commander...."
"A week, Cliff. Seven days. Get in and dig for all you're worth."
"Me and my little psychic shovel," Rowley commented bitterly.
A hum came out of the comm. Somewhere, far above the atmosphere of Hume, the Survey ship, with Spliid on board, cruised among the stars.
"Clean up any questions you can," Spliid went on. "Bring your notes up to date. The pilot boat will pick you up ... let's see ... this is Wednesday ... Wednesday for us, anyway. Next Wednesday, then. Have everything ready to load. And keep on reporting."
Rowley started to retort, thought better of it. He switched off the comm.