The Martians had come again—the same space-patroller, repaired, and twice as many hands and a new skipper. They carried no Terrestrial exile—for once their errand was different.
Four of them, harnessed into erect human posture, armed and armored, stood around the evening fire in the central clearing of the village now ruled by Varina Pemberton. The skipper was being insistent, but not particularly deadly.
"We rrecognize that fourr dead among you will ssettle forr one dead Marrtian," he told the gathered exiles. "The morre sso ass you assurre me that the man rressponssible hass been drriven frrom among you. But we make one demand—the arrmorr taken frrom the body of the dead Marrtian."
"I am sorry about that," the chieftainess replied from her side. "We didn't know that you valued it. If we get it back for you—"
"Ssuch action would rreflect favorrably upon you," nodded the Martian skipper. "Get the arrmorr again, and we will rrefrrain frrom punitive meassurress."
"Why do you want that armor so much?" inquired Shanklin boldly. He himself had never thought of it as worth much. He was more satisfied to have the knife, which he now hid behind him lest the Martians see and claim. But the skipper only shook his petalled skull.
"It iss no prroblem of yourrss," he snubbed Shanklin. And, to Varina Pemberton: "What time sshall we grrant you? A day? Two dayss?... Come before the end of that time and rreporrt to me at the patrrol vessel."
He turned and led his followers back toward the plain where the ship was parked.
Night had well fallen, and silence hung about the vessel. Only a rectangle of soft light showed the open hatchway. The Martian officer led the way thither, ducked his head, entered—