Instead, he kept silent, little beads of perspiration breaking through his prickling skin.
VII
Jon Saxon was the first man out of the helicopter. He stood stock-still while the others climbed out, his scalp tingling, his eyes sweeping the magnificent panorama. The faces of buildings like the sheer fracture of tinted ice walled in the square, with here and there a canyon street slicing off from it.
Ileth scrambled out last, asked, "Jon, what's wrong? You're pale as a ghost."
"I don't know." The tingling in his hair roots was becoming less pronounced as his extra-human sixth sense adjusted. He was still aware of the aliens but not uncomfortably so.
"You—you don't feel anything?"
He started. "How did you know I could feel things?"
"I didn't!" Ileth's hazel-green eyes were enormous. "Good Lord, Jon, I only thought you could sense their thoughts, maybe, if anything was around. I didn't.... Can you feel things? You can, can't you? I should have guessed it."
Saxon's expression had grown grimmer with each word. When Ileth asked, "What are you?" in a hushed voice, he snapped,