According To His Abilities

DeWitt made no comment nor did he show his feelings in any way. He simply put the strap of the heavy box over his shoulder and struggled the weight of it towards the airlock. While the lock was cycling them out he zipped up the front of his heated coverall and turned on the power. When the outer door cracked open a keening wind thrust a handful of brown and strangely shaped leaves into the compartment, bringing with it the pungent, alien smell of the planet. As soon as it had opened wide enough Briggs pushed through and jumped to the ground. He turned slowly in a complete circle, gun ready in his hand, before grunting with satisfaction and shoving it back into the holster.

'You can come down now, DeWitt. None of them in sight.'

He made no attempt to help the smaller man, only grinning with barely concealed contempt as DeWitt lowered the box by its strap, then jumped down clumsily after it.

'Now let's go get Zarevski,' Briggs said, and stamped away towards the village. DeWitt trailed after.

Because he had twisted sideways to straighten the strap over his shoulder, DeWitt caught sight of the three natives a moment before Briggs did. They appeared suddenly from a stand of yew-like trees and stared at the new arrivals. Briggs, who was constantly turning his head to watch on all sides, saw them a moment later. He wheeled, dropped, drawing his gun at the same time, and when he was lying flat on the ground he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The natives dropped just then.

DeWitt didn't move, though he hid to control a sudden shiver that trembled his body. From his belt hung a small metal box with control studs on its surface; it looked like a radio-intercom, but it wasn't. He had his finger pressed on one of the buttons, and he didn't let up until Briggs had stopped pulling the trigger and began to examine the gun with horrified eyes.

'It didn't go off But why?'

'Probably the cold. Contracted the parts,' DeWitt said hurriedly glancing from the prone man to the natives who were slowly climbing to their feet. 'I'm sure it will be all right the next time you need it. And it was a good thing that you didn't shoot. They weren't attacking, or trying to get close to us, just looking.'

'They better not try any funny business with me,' Briggs said, climbing to his feet and holstering his gun, though keeping his hand on the butt. 'They're ugly ones, aren't they?'

By any human standards the aborigines of planet D2-593-4 could not have been called attractive. They resembled men only in rough outline of body, head, and paired arms and legs on a thin torso. Their skin appeared to be covered with hairy scales: fish-like brown scales the size of a man's hand whose lower edge shredded into a fringe of furlike substance. Either they were moulting, or the random nature of scale arrangement was natural, because here and there on the bodies of all of them patches of scales were missing and areas of raw looking, orange skin shone through. They wore no clothes, only strings supporting containers and crude weapons, and the scales continued irregularly over all parts of their bodies. Their heads were perhaps their most repulsive aspect, covered with slashed and wrinkled orange skin. Both men knew that quivering slashes covered olfactory and auditory organs, yet the resemblance to mortal knife wounds was still disconcerting. The tiny eyes peered malevolently from another transverse slit situated near the top of the skull. DeWitt had spent more than a terran year on this planet and still found the sight of them repellent.

'Tell them not to come any closer,' Briggs ordered. He seemed unperturbed by their appearance.

'Stop where you are,' DeWitt said in their language.

They stopped instantly and the one on the right, with the most weapons, hissed through a mouth slit. 'You speak our language.'

DeWitt started to answer, then restrained himself. It was a statement, not a question, and he was under strict orders to volunteer nothing. He was to act as much like a translating machine as possible since this was Briggs' show. Before he could translate the opening remark, the native went on.

'How is it that you speak our language? Does this other one talk too?'

'What is it jabbering about?' Briggs demanded, and snorted in anger when DeWitt had translated. 'Just tell him that your job is translating and I got no time to waste on that kind of stuff, and tell them we want Zarevski.'

This was a test of theory, and DeWitt took a deep breath before he answered. He put an effort into attempting to translate as exactly as possible and was surprised when they took no umbrage at the insulting tone of the words, in face even bobbed their heads from side to side slightly in the local gesture of agreement.

'Where did you learn our language?' The leader asked DeWitt, who translated the question for Briggs before he answered.