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Updated: May 27, 2025
There was a crowd of natives in the fields, gaping at the Terran camp, the next morning, and Gofredo decided to kill the animal until they learned the native name, they were calling it Domesticated Type C. It was herded out where everyone could watch, and a Marine stepped forward unslung his rifle took a kneeling position, and aimed at it. It was a hundred and fifty yards away.
His three companions agreed that that was the word for self, but that was as far as the agreement went. They rendered it, respectively, as "Pwink," "Tweelt" and "Kroosh." Gofredo gave a barking laugh. He was right; anything that could go wrong would go wrong. Lillian used a word; it was not a ladylike word at all. The Svants looked at them as though wondering what could possibly be the matter.
"Their village is fortified," Meillard mentioned. "I question that," Gofredo differed. "There won't be more than a total of five hundred there; call that a fighting strength of two hundred, to defend a twenty-five-hundred-meter perimeter, with woodchoppers' axes and bows and spears. If you notice, there's no wall around the village itself. That palisade is just a fence."
She picked up the imaginary infant and rocked it in her arms, then set it down and grew it up until she had her hand on the top of the man's head again. "That was good, Mom," Gofredo told her. "Now, you and Sonny come along; we'll issue you equipment and find you billets." He added, "What in blazes are we going to feed them; Extee Three?"
Gofredo jumped onto the top of an airjeep, where they could all see him; drawing his pistol, he fired twice into the air. "Be quiet, all of you!" he shouted, as though that would do any good. It did. Silence fell, bounced noisily, and then settled over the crowd. Gofredo went on talking to them: "Take it easy, now; easy." He might have been speaking to a frightened dog or a fractious horse.
The pattern, a little deeper in color and with longer lines, was recognizably like hers, and unlike any of the Svants'. The others came in, singly and in pairs and threes. They watched the colors dance on the screen to picture the four Svant words which might or might not all mean me. They tried to duplicate them. Luis Gofredo and Willi Schallenmacher came closest of anybody.
And then the knives come out, and the shooting starts." Luis Gofredo was also a specialist, speaking on his subject. While they were at lunch, Charley Loughran screened in from the other camp and wanted to talk to Bennet Fayon. "A funny thing, Bennet. I took a shot at a bird ... no, a flying mammal ... and dropped it. It was dead when it hit the ground, but there isn't a mark on it.
"They make their decisions by endurance; the party that can resist the feelings of the other longest converts their opponents." "Pure democracy," Gofredo declared. "Rule by the party that can make the most noise." "And I'll bet that when they're sick, they go around chanting, 'I am well; I feel just fine!" Anna said. "Autosuggestion would really work, here. Think of the feedback, too.
There would always be the suspicion that they had contributed to the failure. Bwaaa-waaa-waaanh! The wavering sound hung for an instant in the air. A few seconds later, it was repeated, then repeated again. "Our cannon's a horn," Gofredo said. "I can't see how they're blowing it, though."
"Let me try it," Gofredo said. The little Marine major went through the same routine. At his first word, the uproar stopped; before he was through, the natives' faces were sagging and crumbling into expressions of utter and heartbroken grief. "It's not as bad as all that, is it?" he said. "You try it, Mark." "Me ... Mark ... Howell...." They looked bewildered.
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