He said to the girl, "We haven't killed anything, certainly not any people." The vision of that carbonized carcass back on the burn flickered across his mind. "What do you think we are, murderers? You're the first person we've seen."
She cut him off with an impatient gesture. "You're a pack of killers, all of you. I wouldn't expect you to understand."
"Hey, Mr. Pritchard," called out Sturgis, "I'll bet she's from that Havilland group. Ask her."
Pritchard cocked his head. "That's right! You are, aren't you? The Havilland Survey sent out by the Astrodetic Board. Unreported for four years. What happened? Where's your base?"
The girl nodded briefly. "And you're Pritchard, the notorious big-game hunter. I've heard about you. Nothing good, of course, but I've heard."
Pritchard smiled his sweetest smile. "That's right. I'm well known for my slaughter of helpless animals. But, come on, now," he coaxed, "how about a report on your party? The Board will appreciate any little message you care to send it."
The girl gripped a vine as if to steady herself. "Wiped out," she said tersely.
"Oh." He nodded, lips pursed. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he said, "How?"
"What does it matter?" The face above was momentarily tense, withdrawn. "With plenty of synthetabs—and the hydroponics laid out and producing—somebody still had to go out and kill. For fresh meat." Her voice trailed off.