"Call me Ghor," he said.
Mick's eyes cruised over the pointed face. Ghor was a strange name. It wasn't terrestrial and it didn't sound like any of the Martian dialects. Ghor might be a criminal, preferring exile to a life in prison.
"You're a strange man, Ghor," Mick said. "You present a mystery. Are you from Mars? How does it happen you live on this Godforsaken bit of rock?"
"I was born here," Ghor said.
"Oh!" There was an awkward pause after this unexpected answer. Mick's eyes unconsciously lifted toward the roof, above which stood the frozen human figure.
"He was my father." Ghor spoke simply. His words were carefully and slowly enunciated. Mick supposed that Ghor was unused to talking and his brain worked slowly in the matter of words. But that brain was keen. It seemed to read Mick's thoughts, answering an unspoken question about the Dead Man.
"You must have an interesting history," Alf suggested.
"I have," Ghor replied. "But so have you. Tell me how you happened to find my home. You might have repaired your ship and gone on, without discovering me."
"There was a field of queer acting plants—they looked like maize, except that they tried to kill us."
"Oh! My cornfield! I forgot the nasty habit the cornstalks have."