"Yes sir!"
Grinning with the sheer pleasure of filling a need, several of the crew followed the cook. They came back with folding plates and collapsible cups, filled to the brim with succulent stew made of dehydrated vegetables and pressed beef. These, a bit squeamishly, they put into the clumsy grasp of the little dwarfed S'zetnurs; laughing, they watched how they snatched it, turning their backs to their benefactors as they wolfed down the warm food....
The laughter died. For almost instantly three, then a dozen of the dwarfish creatures were doubled up with nausea and stomach-cramp. Others, gagging at the first bite, dropped their platters of food. Then all threw themselves down before the men from Terra, groveling in the grass at their feet as though begging for mercy....
"Lord, we're stupid!" Cantrell sighed. "Of course they can't take our rich food! Probably been living on herbs and stuff for Lord knows how long...." He moved pityingly toward one groaning dwarf, writhing on the sward and hugging his stomach. "Hey, you medics! Give me hand—"
He knelt, trying to roll the sufferer over on his back and slip a gastrotab between the writhing lips. But, with a look of terrified pleading, the little S'zetnur covered his face and flopped over again, hiding his warped features in a clump of pale weeds. With his fingerless hands he groped along the ground, found Cantrell's foot, and drew himself up to it, wriggling in worm-like obeisance—
Then, before the Earth pilot could move, a swollen tongue crept out and caressed his bare toes under the plastic sandal-strap.
Cantrell's reaction was instinctive. His foot came up, in sheer disgust that any man should lick another's foot like a mongrel-dog. Cursing, he kicked the little S'zetnur square in the mouth.
And, the next instant, hated himself.
Blood, a thin watery trickle, ran from a corner of the gargoyle mouth; but the S'zetnur made no move to escape. He merely lay where he was, dumbly, holding up one arm. Opaque eyes peered warily up through the weeds.