nto quite a mystery. Under such fruitful conditions and
ideal environment, why hadn't Joe's people overrun the planet? Even with
the brief life-span, each female should produce many babies.

Joe had no answer. The problem didn't interest him, and he refused to
ponder it. He'd squat in the corner jealously guarding his limp-skinned
mango, nipping at it occasionally when our questions failed to make
sense.

We were all, incidentally, quite curious to taste Joe's tala juice, but
it was his sole property. His lady-friends would hand it to no one but
him, and he guarded it selfishly. Bailey and Sorenson had enlisted the
help of our two organic chemists to examine the moist residue of the
empty skins, but with their limited lab facilities all they could do was
make guesses that the coveted juice was the product of fermentation or
enzymic action with which we were unfamiliar.

As a psychologist I knew that Joe responded to the tala similarly to the
way a human dipsomaniac does to alcohol. When he was well-supplied he
was cheerful and happy. When he ran out, he became taciturn and
irritable. His frequent resort to the liquor, when we tried to force him
to answer troublesome questions, confirmed my suspicion that there were
certain matters his brilliant mind simply refused to embrace, and the
simplest way to avoid worrying about them was to take another drink of
tala.

Benson and I discussed this one afternoon while Joe was taking a nap. We
sat in the shade of my hut spooning the lush pulp of a mango into our
mouths. He said, "Everything points to a race of super-intelligence held
down by sheer degeneracy."

"You mean the tala-drinking?" I asked.

He nodded. "For one thing. Our work parties report that they never stop
drinking the stuff. The older ones get quite plastered. I've seen it
myself. Disgusting. And they have no common sense of, of--well, I
shouldn't say decency, because obviously morality as we know it just
doesn't exist. But thank heavens they don't care for the scent of
humans."

I said, "Don't depend on that too much. I asked Joe about it, and he
said that we don't necessarily smell bad to them. It's just so alien to
any scent they've known that they tend to shy off. Joe is quite used to
it now. He lets Sue rub his back and his head. She's made quite a pet of
him."

Benson didn't like this news at all. He pondered thoughtfully for a
moment. "That means that they'll all gradually get used to being around