"Not just yet," Walton said. "I want to go through the rest of these snapshots." He turned over one after another rapidly until he came to a photo that showed a strange blocky figure, four-armed, bright green in color. Its neckless head was encased in a sort of breathing mask fashioned from some transparent plastic. Three cold, brooding eyes peered outward.
"What's this?" Walton asked.
"Oh, that." McLeod attempted a cheerful grin. "That's a Dirnan. They live on Procyon IX, one of the ammonia-giant planets. They're the aliens who don't want us there."
[XII]
Walton stared at the photograph of the alien. There was intelligence there ... yes, intelligence and understanding, and perhaps even a sort of compassion.
He sighed. There were always qualifications, never unalloyed successes.
"Colonel McLeod, how long would it take your ship to return to the Procyon system?" he asked thoughtfully.
McLeod considered the question. "Hardly any time, sir. A few days, maybe. Why?"
"Just a wild idea. Tell me about your contact with these—ah—Dirnans."