same
ideology, since the basic perceptive abilities of both are necessarily
the same through identical heredity. Evaluation of alien motivations,
conversely--_"

"Oh, hell," Farrell cut in wearily. "Let's get back to the ship, shall
we? We'll all feel more like--"

His right foot gave way beneath him without warning, crushing through
the soft ground and throwing him heavily. He sat up at once, and swore
in incredulous anger when he found the ankle swelling rapidly inside his
boot.

"Sprained! Damn it all!"

Gibson and Stryker, on their knees beside the broken crust of soil,
ignored him. Gibson took up a broken length of stick and prodded
intently in the cavity, prying out after a moment a glistening two-foot
ellipsoid that struggled feebly on the ground.

"A chrysalid," Stryker said, bending to gauge the damage Farrell's heavy
boot had done. "In a very close pre-eclosion stage. Look, the protective
sheathing has begun to split already."

The thing lay twitching aimlessly, prisoned legs pushing against its
shining transparent integument in an instinctive attempt at premature
freedom. The movement was purely reflexive; its head, huge-eyed and as
large as a man's clenched fist, had been thoroughly crushed under
Farrell's heel.

Oddly, its injury touched Farrell even through the pain of his injured
foot.

"It's the first passably handsome thing we've seen in this pesthole," he
said, "and I've maimed it. Finish it off, will you?"

Stryker grunted, feeling the texture of the imprisoning sheath with
curious fingers. "What would it have been _in imago_, Gib? A giant
butterfly?"

"A moth," Gibson said tersely. "_Lepidoptera_, anyway."

He stood up and ended the chrysalid's strugglings with a bolt from his
heat-gun before extending a hand to help Farrell up. "I'd like to
examine it closer, but there'll be others. Let's get Arthur out of
here."

* * * * *

They went back to the ship by slow stages, pausing now and then while
Gibson gathered a small packet of bone fragments from the mudflats and
underbrush.

"Some of these are older than others," he explained when Stryker
remarked on his selection. "But none are recent. It should help to know
their exact age."

An hour later, they were bathed and dressed, sealed off comfortably in
the ship against the humid heat and stink of the swamp. Farrell lay on a
chart room acceleration couch, resting, while Stryker taped his swollen
ankle