“Of course, Captain. But I can sense them and avoid them.”
“ You?” Skhiva stared up at him.
“Yes, Captain. I wish to be left here.”
“What? In this place of appalling repulsiveness?”
“It has an all-pervading air of ugliness and despair,” admitted Poet Pander. “All destruction is ugly. But by accident I have found a little beauty. It heartens me. I would like to seek its source.”
“To what beauty do you refer?” Skhiva demanded.
Pander tried to explain the alien in nonalien terms.
“Draw it for me,” ordered Skhiva.
Pander drew it, gave him the picture, said, “There!”
Gazing at it for a long time, Skhiva handed it back, mused awhile, then spoke along the other’s nerves. “We are individuals with all the rights of individuals. As an individual, I don’t think that picture sufficiently beautiful to be worth the tail-tip of a domestic arlan. I will admit that it is not ugly, even that it is pleasing.”