And here the natives had—a village. One coarser, cruder, than the village of the meanest of Earth's savages, but a village nonetheless. Slab dwellings dabbed with thick black clay, a central structure, larger than the rest, something that looked like a market—or community gathering-spot.
Chip's wonderment had made him impervious at first to such trivia as personal comfort and discomfort. He found now, though, that he was cold. By dint of much effort, he managed to squirm a hand to his belt-studs, operate the tiny needle that increased the warmth of his space-suit.
Almost immediately there came a howl from the green native maintaining a vigilant grip on Chip's arm; the fellow leaped away, bellowing angry, guttural speech at his leader.
And Salvation spun to Chip swiftly.
"Chip—turn down that heat, boy!"
"B—but—" stammered Chip.
"Quickly!"
Chip obeyed. It was well he did so, for the leader was moving toward him menacingly. With a cautious finger he touched Chip's suit. Then, apparently mollified to discover it satisfactorily cold, he snarled a word or two and the little party moved on.
Chip stared at the old missionary.
"But, why?" he demanded. "What did I do wrong? I don't get it. I was freezing, and—"