Queer indeed. How could he even attempt to explain it to her! These genes—hideous monsters here on this little world, held in check, destroyed by the Xarite radiance. And on Earth, the dread sub-microscopic spores of poliomelitus—his father had killed them with Xarite radiance. As though here might be not only the original source of the terrible spores, but the cure for them as well. Nature striking a balance here; and failing to do it on Earth. Did the spores, the genes drift through the immensity of space? Young Atwood well remembered that even a hundred years ago, physicians had advanced some such theory. Spores, landing on Earth, where conditions would not allow them to grow in size, but where they could only multiply themselves in the bodies of human victims.
"I was thinking," Atwood began again. And then he shrugged hopelessly and gave it up. "Ah-li, listen. Take me to your people now. They will know I'm friendly?"
"Friendly? Why, of course. A god—to help them—"
And he would get his cylinder full of Xarite in its pure state, and then go back to Earth. And take the girl with him? The thought occurred to him suddenly and sent a queer vague thrill through him....
She was helping him to his feet. "We will go," she said. "The God—Roh-ee—Oh, they will welcome you!"
"We're supposed to go up here over the tree-tops?"
With a faint smile she regarded him. "Well, it is not very far. But you are clumsy."
"I think I'd feel better on the ground," he agreed.
A leap down, for him from this hundred-foot height, could have been dangerous. It was different with the girl. On Earth she might have weighed not much over a hundred pounds; and with her slight weight here, the pressure of her spread grass-cloak against this heavy air was sufficient. She fluttered down; and like a clumsy monkey he half dropped, half fell, clinging to the vine-ropes.