their faces.

[Illustration: What strange thing was this? Who were these people and
what was their power?]

They looked human. They weren't, of course. Parallel evolution accounted
for the resemblance, like causes producing like results.

Nielson was watching them like a hawk. Without making an aggressive
move, the way he held his gun showed he was ready to go into action at a
moment's notice. Behind them, the ship was silent, its crew alert.
Hargraves bent to manipulate the complicated tuning of the teletron.

"I am Thulon," a voice whispered in his brain. "No need for that."

Jed Hargraves' leaped to his feet. He caught startled glances from Ron
Val and Nielson and knew they had heard and understood too. Understood,
rather. There had been nothing for the ears to hear.

"Thulon! No need for--_I understood you without_--"

Thulon smiled. He was taller than the average human, and very slender.
"We are natural telepaths. So there is no need to use your instrument."

"Uh? Natural telepaths! Well, I'm damned!"

"Damned? I cannot quite grasp the meaning of the word. Your mind is
radiating on an emotional level. Do you wish to indicate surprise? I
cannot grasp your thinking."

Hargraves choked, fought for control of his mind. For a minute it had
run away with him. He brought it to heel.

"What are you doing here?" Thulon asked.

* * * * *

Hargraves blinked at the directness of the question. They certainly
wasted no time getting down to business. "We--" He caught himself. No
telling how much they could take directly from his mind!

"We came from--far away." He tried to force his thoughts into narrow
channels. "We--"

"There is no need to be afraid." Thulon smiled gently. Or was there
wiliness in that smile? Was this stranger attempting to lure him into a
feeling of false security?

"I meant, what are you doing _here_?" Thulon continued. His eyes went
down to the ground.

There was only one shovel on the ground. One shovel was all there had
been in the ship. Thulon's glance went to it, went on.

There were three mounds. The soft mould had dug easily. It had all been
patted back into place. On the middle mound Ron Val had finished placing
a small cross that he had hastily improvised from the ship's stores.
Scratched in the metal was a name: Hal Sarkoff.

"We had an outbreak of buboes," Hargraves said. "That's a disease. Three
of our companions died and we landed here to bury