"Alive?"
"Certainly. The Men don't even know we exist. That Dog I was Hunting with is a Grom from the twelfth expedition. There are hundreds of us here, Pilot. We like it."
Pid tried to absorb it all. He had always known that the lower castes were lax in caste-consciousness. But this was preposterous!
This planet's secret menace was—freedom!
"Join us, Pilot," Ger said. "We've got a paradise here. Do you know how many species there are on this planet? An uncountable number! There's a shape to suit every need!"
Pid ignored them. Traitors!
He'd do the job all by himself.
So Men were unaware of the presence of the Grom. Getting near the reactor might not be so difficult after all. The others had failed in their duty because they were of the lower castes, weak and irresponsible. Even the Pilots among them must have been secretly sympathetic to the Cult of Shapelessness the Chief had mentioned, or the alien planet could never have swayed them.
What shape to assume for his attempt?
Pid considered.