"We stand by these," Mara said, tapping her crossbow.
Planter fiddled with a pistol. Its mechanism was strange but understandable, and he flattered himself that he could learn to use it. As for the pen-missiles, they seemed to contain a charge that burned violently on exposure to air. The trigger-mechanism, whether of pistol or crossbow, punctured it, set it afire, and the vehemence of combustion not only propelled it but destroyed the target completely.
The older woman, whose name was Mantha, nodded her head over a decision.
"Let the man have the dag," she granted, with an air of authority. "If he fights as Mara says, he may be of aid. Yet he is unlike those we know, in hue and aspect."
True enough, Planter was dark of complexion, with black curls and ruddy tan jaws. He spoke to Mantha, respectfully, for the others called her "Mother" and treated her as a commander.
"I'm not of your people," he said. "I come from another planet. Earth."
"Earth?" she repeated. "You come from there? Why, so do we all."
Down a trail went a patrol of Skygors. Among them, not much under them in size, tramped Max. His broad shoulders bore a great burden of supplies from the ship. At the head of the procession, next to the chief, walked Disbro.
As someone else was saying to Planter at almost the same moment, the chief Skygor boomed to Disbro: "You are not like men we know."