do to those same stimuli--but what if that other
species recognizes only one or two of them, or none at all? What if
their motivations stem from a set of responses entirely different from
any we know?"

"There aren't any," Farrell said promptly. "What do you think they would
be?"

"There you have it," Stryker said triumphantly. He chuckled, his
good-nature restored. "We can't imagine what those emotions would be
like because we aren't equipped to understand. Could a race depending
entirely on extra-sensory perception appreciate a Mozart quintet or a
Botticelli altar piece or a performance of _Hamlet_? You know it
couldn't--the esthetic nuances that make those works great would escape
it completely, because the motives that inspired their creation are
based on a set of values entirely foreign to its comprehension.

"There's a digger wasp on Earth whose female singles out a particular
species of tarantula to feed her larvae--and the spider stands patiently
by, held by some compulsion whose nature we can't even guess, while the
wasp digs a grave, paralyzes the spider and shoves it into the hole with
an egg attached. The spider could kill the wasp, and will kill one of
any other species, but it submits to that particular kind without a
flicker of protest. And if we can't understand the mechanics of such a
relationship between reflexive species, then what chance have we of
understanding the logic of an _intelligent_ race of aliens? The results
of its activities can be assessed, but not the motivations behind those
activities."

"All right," Farrell conceded. "You and Gib are right, as usual, and I'm
wrong. We'll check that fourth dome."

"You'll stay here with Xav," Stryker said firmly, "while Gib and I
check. You'd only punish yourself, using that foot."

* * * * *

After another eight-hour period of waiting, Farrell was nearing the end
of his patience. He tried to rationalize his uneasiness and came finally
to the conclusion that his failing hinged on a matter of conditioning.
He was too accustomed to the stable unity of their team to feel
comfortable without Gibson and Stryker. Isolated from their perpetual
bickering and the pleasant unspoken warmth of their regard, he was
lonesome and tense.

It would have been different, he knew, if either of the others had been
left behind. Stryker had his beloved Reclamations texts and his
microfilm albums of problems solved on other worlds; G