"We came from—far away." He tried to force his thoughts into narrow channels. "We—"
"There is no need to be afraid." Thulon smiled gently. Or was there wiliness in that smile? Was this stranger attempting to lure him into a feeling of false security?
"I meant, what are you doing here?" Thulon continued. His eyes went down to the ground.
There was only one shovel on the ground. One shovel was all there had been in the ship. Thulon's glance went to it, went on.
There were three mounds. The soft mould had dug easily. It had all been patted back into place. On the middle mound Ron Val had finished placing a small cross that he had hastily improvised from the ship's stores. Scratched in the metal was a name: Hal Sarkoff.
"We had an outbreak of buboes," Hargraves said. "That's a disease. Three of our companions died and we landed here to bury them. We had just finished doing this when you arrived."
"Died! Three of you died? And you hid them under these mounds?"
"Yes. Of course. There was nothing else we could—"
"You are going to leave them here in the ground!"
"Certainly." Hargraves was wondering if this method of disposing of the dead violated some tribal taboo of this people. Different races disposed of their dead in different ways. He did not know the customs of the inhabitants of this world. "If we have offended against your customs, we are sorry."