Into the clearing he trod—and then recoiled with amazement. Before him stood a human figure! A small man, perfectly, beautifully proportioned, radiating a golden aureole and crowned by curly, yellow locks of hair. He seemed fragile, incredibly delicate, yet he bore himself with buoyant ease, a result of the lighter gravitational pull of the planet, and in his eyes sparkled whirling motes of color that lent to him an air of unimpeachable intelligence.
Michel Drawers advanced slowly toward the man. His towering bulk looming massively with strikingly primitive and brutal aspect in comparison to the statuesque lines and angelic beauty of this native son.
"Who? Who are you?" Michel Drawers questioned, his loud, rough voice almost artificial in an obvious attempt at impossible gentleness.
The aura of golden light seemed to thicken about the form of the little man.
Softly, Drawers thought he heard:
"I, strange one, am Persum, dweller in the city of Saeve. In all my years I have never known a man like you. From whence do you come?"
Drawers was rigid, surprise-struck. He had heard or thought he heard words as clear, as plain as words could be—yet he had seen no lips move, knew that no sound, other than his own voice had pierced the air.
"Telepathy," he uttered in awe. "Mental telepathy."
"Telepathy? Telepathy?" an unspoken voice returned. "We have no such word in our language. What is its meaning?"
"To communicate without sound—by thought."