"So you're satisfied now, too?"
Rowley nodded noncommittally. "At first," he said distantly, "I imagined crazy things—like a super-advanced race living underground, giving us the bum's rush with a play-show they had rigged up."
"And you found out you were wrong," suggested Spliid.
"I found out I was partly right."
"I won't buy supermen living in caves, Cliff."
"Neither would I. The next crazy thing I thought was that the natives were immortals and they didn't want us to share in it. Silly, huh?"
"Pretty silly," Spliid agreed drily.
"I knew they wanted to get rid of us," Rowley went on earnestly. "I could feel it. But why? Most inferior races we run against want contact with the galaxy...."
"They want refrigerators and washing machines, tractors, railroad trains and automobiles," Spliid interrupted. "If we gave them, their culture would go to pot in a generation. There's a reason for our methods."
"A lot of little things about Hume didn't jibe," Rowley continued. "Bathrooms, for instance."