"Cast off!" came Gordon's voice.
VI
He touched the "release" button and felt himself flung away from the Special Agent. He boosted his little vessel around a semicircle several kilometers in diameter, as he had been instructed, so the position of the big ship would not be given away when he approached the ground. He overmodulated the drive then, to make plenty of noise, and headed directly for the waiting native. Over a suitable grassy spot, he waited until he was sure the Azuran had seen him; then he eased down slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves.
He landed with the nose about ten degrees too low, settled with a rolling bump, and opened the port as soon as he could manage. He mumbled to himself a bit, practising his little speech. Then he stepped out.
The blast-rifle looked like a ninety-millimeter projector. It scowled viciously at his abdomen from only twenty paces away. He swallowed several times and managed a trembly little smile.
The native continued to inspect him sourly through the peepsight. A tentacle seemed to twitch impatiently at the trigger.
"After all," the linguist thought rapidly, "a facial expression such as a smile is probably meaningless to him. I shall have to make a more significant sign, as in that sketch." He unbuckled his holster belt and carefully laid it to one side, hand-guns and all. Still no response.
He walked forward halfway to the native, holding up his open hands. He recited his speech, then, and stood waiting.
With his first words, the other's attitude changed. The gun was lowered slowly while the native stared at him with big, black, disk-like eyes. He stared back, examining the bright red native with interest. Long feet, with two toes like pincers; heavily muscled legs; middle limbs like arms, with short, powerful hands of a sort; two six-fingered tentacles growing out from the sides of the head—