dshield, forcing Orne to
use the wipers.

In the bucket seat of the sled's cab, Orne fought the controls. He was
plagued by the vague slow-motion-floating sensation that a heavy planet
native always feels in lighter gravity. It gave him an unhappy stomach.

Things skipped through the air around the lurching vehicle: flitting and
darting things. Insects came in twin cones, siphoned toward the
headlights. There was an endless chittering whistling tok-tok-toking in
the gloom beyond the lights.

Stetson's voice hissed suddenly through the surgically implanted
speaker: "How's it look?"

"Alien."

"Any sign of that mob?"

"Negative."

"O.K. We're taking off."

Behind Orne, there came a deep rumbling roar that receded as the scout
cruiser climbed its jets. All other sounds hung suspended in
after-silence, then resumed: the strongest first and then the weakest.

A heavy object suddenly arced through the headlights, swinging on a
vine. It disappeared behind a tree. Another. Another. Ghostly shadows
with vine pendulums on both sides. Something banged down heavily onto
the hood of the sled.

[Illustration]

Orne braked to a creaking stop that shifted the load behind him, found
himself staring through the windshield at a native of Gienah III. The
native crouched on the hood, a Mark XX exploding-pellet rifle in his
right hand directed at Orne's head. In the abrupt shock of meeting, Orne
recognized the weapon: standard issue to the marine guards on all R&R
survey ships.

The native appeared the twin of the one Orne had seen on the translite
screen. The four-fingered hand looked extremely capable around the stock
of the Mark XX.

Slowly, Orne put a hand to his throat, pressed the contact button. He
moved his speaking muscles: _"Just made contact with the mob. One on the
hood now has one of our Mark XX rifles aimed at my head."_

The surf-hissing of Stetson's voice came through the hidden speaker:
_"Want us to come back?"_

_"Negative. Stand by. He looks cautious rather than hostile."_

Orne held up his right hand, palm out. He had a second thought: held up
his left hand, too. Universal symbol of peaceful intentions: empty
hands. The gun muzzle lowered slightly. Orne called into his mind the
language that had been hypnoforced into him. _Ocheero? No. That means
'The People.' Ah ..._ And he had the heavy fricative greeting sound.

"Ffroiragrazzi," he said.

The native shifted to the left, answered in pure, unacce