The captain groped inside. Harris stepped forward, shoving the dwarf away as he flung himself at Cantrell again like a furious kitten. There was, the Earthmen both saw at once, something inside. A kind of box, crudely made of white wood, as though a clumsy child had put it together. There was no lock, Cantrell raised the lid—
Inside, dry and crumbling, was a small doll made of brown clay. Harris and Cantrell stared at it, amazed at its perfection of modeling. It was, or seemed to be, a very good image of an Earthman. Certainly, it was not intended to portray one of the stunted little S'zetnurs, for the legs and feet were perfect, the hands beautifully formed, the facial details fine and delicate—though there was about the thing, Cantrell noted, an odd expression of cruelty and arrogance—
"Well! What d'ya know?" he snapped. "A graven image! The aborigines on Terra used to make these images of an enemy—just before slipping him a poison-dart in the back! Juju ... and they made sure it worked!"
He whirled on the little S'zetnur, who was whistling shrilly now, jumping up and down in agitated protest.
At that moment, one of the diggers shouted a warning. Cantrell turned, to see beyond the handful of workers in the valley a small army of S'zetnurs advancing on them from the jungle-edge. Backs to the cliff wall, Harris and Cantrell snatched out their blasters. The captain yelled, warning the unarmed workers to make a dash for the camp:
"General alert! Prepare for attack!"
Then the dwarfs were upon them, armed rather pathetically with clubs strapped to their fingerless hands. Advancing in a rough semi-circle upon Cantrell and Harris, and completely ignoring the half-dozen workers who dashed past them, the little S'zetnurs closed in. Lips tight, eyes narrowed, the Earthmen waited until they were within ten feet—
Then, methodically, they let go with their blasters, searing the attackers from left to right.