Think of an artichoke ... but not a vegetable. Dusky pink, with thin, translucent mouth-flaps moving feebly. The blood in the tiny arteries was very red—rich in hemoglobin, for a rare atmosphere.
As a youngster, I had once opened a chicken egg, when it was ten days short of hatching. The memory came back now.
"It looks like a growing embryo of some kind," Klein stated.
"Close the lump again, Craig," Miller ordered softly.
The biologist obeyed.
"A highly intelligent race of beings wouldn't encase their developing young in mud, would they?" Klein almost whispered.
"You're judging by a human esthetic standard," Craig offered. "Actually, mud can be as sterile as the cleanest surgical gauze."
he discussion was developing unspoken and shadowy ramifications. The thing in the dusty red lump—whether the young of a dominant species, or merely a lower animal—had been born, hatched, started in life probably during the weeks or months of a vast space journey. Nobody would know anything about its true nature until, and if, it manifested itself. And we had no idea of what that manifestation might be. The creature might emerge an infant or an adult. Friendly or malevolent. Or even deadly.