Jose Swenson was a far cry from the Reverend Newell: his business was selling souls, not saving them, and he knew his business well. He had not been in Idwandana a week before he had his hold jam-packed with "fireheads," and he would have been away and gone an hour hence if, during one of his forays into the forest, he had not glimpsed the crude stone temple.
In Swenson's mind, temples, even crude stone ones, were always potential sources of treasure. After all, who really knew but what there were gold mines in Idwandana? Perhaps even diamond mines? And what more logical place was there for a race of superstitious savages to store the bounty gleaned therefrom than in their temple?
So instead of departing, he set forth once more into the forest, with six members of his crew, leaving the remaining three members to guard the Malaita. This was a tactical blunder, arising from his mistaken assumption that by now, all of the Idwandanans would be too terrified of stun grenades to cause any serious trouble. As a matter of fact, most of them were, but Skonsdoggugil wasn't, and reinforced by several tribal units from the north, with whom his own tribe claimed kinship, he attacked the Malaita as soon as Swenson and his party were out of earshot.
The attack went well, so well, in fact, that the three crew members were neatly quartered on the deck before any of them had a chance to radio Swenson of the disaster. Skonsdoggugil wasted no time: after freeing the prisoners in the hold and instructing them to guard the ship, he armed his warriors with stun grenades stolen from the arsenal, and set out in pursuit of Swenson.
Swenson had made good time, and was already within attacking distance of the temple. A stun grenade knocked out half the honor guard and sent the other half streaking for the forest. Swenson headed for the entrance. He could feel the diamonds trickling through his fingers. He could taste the rich wine they would buy, and the luscious lips of the lovely women they would give him access to. He burst into the throne room, hardly able to contain himself—
And saw Isolde.
The Idwandanans had clothed her in their choicest of pweitl hides, and she had gone back to combing her hair in its original style. Her pale blue eyes were clear and unwavering. The classic body with which Androids, Inc., had endowed her was unsullied by either time or the elements, Swenson had been born in space and had spent most of his life in space. He had never been to Earth, and he had never seen an android. Consequently, he mistook Isolde for a real woman—a woman of heroic proportions, perhaps, but a woman radiant with the beauty he had looked for all his life and never found, till now.
Swenson forgot about the diamonds. He forgot about the gold. He stepped forward, touched Isolde's arm. The normal human temperature which her thermostat maintained, felt natural to his fingers. The softness of her synthetic skin made his flesh tingle. "A white goddess," he said. "A genuine honest-to-God white goddess!"
The burst of recitative which his remark provoked, disconcerted him for a moment. He had heard many languages in his day, but he had never heard one with such a violent intonation or such guttural syllables. Isolde, he concluded, must come from a world he had never touched upon in all his travels—a world remote from the ordinary pathways of man. And he was right, too, though in a way he did not dream.