The lovely sounds ended. Then the Leader, the tall splendid one with the pleasant expression, held up his hand again and spoke, pointing first at one group of men, then at another, who nodded and drifted away from the ring toward the task he had set for them. The watchers in the forest nudged one another, pointing with their stumps of hands and conversing (in the only way that was left to them) with the expressions that flitted across their horribly disfigured faces. Hands! they commented excitedly. With fingers! And feet, gracefully arched feet, with five toes on each! Oh, were not the strangers beautiful—were they not perfect?
However—the watchers frowned—they did not seem to be too intelligent. Now, with evident excitement, one of them came running to the tall leader with a handful of pebbles. Others gathered about the two of them, yelling and pounding one another on the back as they examined the small stones—which, the watchers knew, were completely worthless. No one, not even these strong healthy newcomers, could eat a stone.
"Rob! Yah-hoo!..." Harris, first astrogator, was yelling at his long-time buddy, the pilot and captain of the space-freighter Eroica. "Look at this stuff! Just look at it! Solaranium vein a foot thick ... damn planet's loaded with it! We did it! We finally did it...."
"Well, don't burn out your jet!" Rob Cantrell chuckled, calm and laconic in the face of this near miracle. He squinted at one mica-bright stone, tossing it up and catching it with a grin of quiet triumph. "Yep ... journey's end. If our rations hold out, we can mine and refine enough pure sola to start every factory on Terra booming again inside six months. I ... Good Lord!" He broke off, hand arcing to the blaster on his hip. "What's that thing? Heads up!" he shouted a warning to the busy men about him. "General alert!... we've got visitors!"
It was a S'zetnur child who had ventured out of hiding, drawn by curiosity—and by the tantalizing smell that issued from a pot of stew one of the cooks was stirring. Now, as the tiny gargoyle-figure crawled out into the clearing from the shelter of those white-leafed trees, everyone turned to stare—the mechanics, unloading their diggers and refining filters; the freight crew, setting up the tents around the big rocket; the biochemists, busily testing the flora for edibility or possible toxicity; the ethnologists, searching for some clue to the language and customs of the people of this planet.
Cantrell, his hand dropping slowly from his gun-butt, walked slowly forward toward the crawling child. It squinted up at him with milky blue eyes that could scarcely make out the outline of his tall figure. But, at his approach, it cowered back; started to scuttle for cover. Cantrell reached down gently and picked it up, shuddering at the little face so close to his own. Moonstone eyes. Gargoyle mouth with crumbling teeth. Round scabrous head that was almost hairless. Stumps of feet and hands that had no fingers, no toes. The child squirmed frantically in his embrace, uttering a small shrill whistle that seemed to be the only sound it could make.
"God, it's human, isn't it?" Harris, standing beside him, muttered in pity and revulsion. "Put it down, Rob! It's ... diseased!"
More of the men from Terra crowded closer, peering at the struggling child. Then one of the chemists shouted, pointing. Cantrell whirled, hand moving again toward his gun.
Another of the creatures was creeping out of the forest. A woman—probably the child's mother. She limped forward, whistling soothingly to the child, but utterly terrified herself from the look on her bloated, twisted features. A few feet away from Cantrell, she threw her hands over her face and flung herself prone before him; head in the grass, she crawled toward him, reached his feet, and lay tense as though expecting a blow....