For three weeks Jan and his men lived idly on the beach without turning a hand for food. They made friends with the birds and taught them language. In return, the birds taught them of the ways of the planet. Neither birds nor spacemen went near the Mohcans except for small groups of winged spies.
"The Mohcans are doing well," the red-winged chief reported. "They are catching fish and they know what fruit is good. Every morning and evening they come together on the beach and sing."
Then, several days later, the bird chief said to Jan, "Tonight we attack. There will be no moons for several hours."
"What will you do?"
"Listen and learn."
"If you can, spare the woman named Sister Ellen."
"I promise nothing, but we will try."
As the sun sank, the sky was suddenly filled with a great rhythm of wings. For a quarter of an hour there was silence. Then there began a song with a sensual quality to it, a low, sad insistent yearning. It became stronger, more determined, more vibrant with urgency. Jan thought of all the women he had had and of those he had longed to have, and finally the dream woman who existed on none of the worlds but only in his own mind.
And then the music shifted, and he began to hate the men who had taken women away from him and the women he could never have because of the men who had them.