No, even unarmed, the Throg had to be considered a menace.

Shann was still thinking along that line as he splashed through the surf
which broke about the lower jaw of the skull island, climbed up one of
the pointed rocks which masqueraded as a tooth, and reached for a higher
hold to lead him to the nose slit, the gateway to the alien's hiding
place.

The clak-claks screamed and dived about him, highly resentful of his
intrusion. And when they grew so bold as to buffet him with their wings,
threaten him with their tearing beaks, he was glad to reach the broken
rock edging his chosen door and duck inside. Once there, Shann looked
back. There was no sighting the cliff window where Thorvald stood, nor
was he aware in any way of mental contact with the Survey officer; their
hope of such a linkage might be futile.

Shann was reluctant to venture farther. His eyes had sufficiently
adjusted to the limited supply of light, and now the Terran brought out
the one aid the Wyverns had granted him, a green crystal such as those
which had played the role of stars on the cavern roof. He clipped its
simple loop setting to the front of his belt, leaving his hands free.
Then, having filled his lungs for the last time with clean, sea-washed
air, he started into the dome of the skull.

There was a fetid thickness to this air only a few feet away from the
outer world. The odor of clak-clak droppings and refuse from their nests
was strong, but there was an added staleness, as if no breeze ever
scooped out the old atmosphere to replace it with new. Fragile bones
crunched under Shann's boots, but as he drew away from the entrance, the
pale glow of the crystal increased its radiance, emitting a light not
unlike that of the phosphorescent bushes, so that he was not swallowed
up by dark.

The cave behind the nose hole narrowed quickly into a cleft, a narrow
cleft which pierced into the bowl of the skull. Shann proceeded with
caution, pausing every few steps. There came a murmur rising now and
again to a shriek, issuing, he guessed, from the clak-clak rookery
above. And the pound of sea waves was also a vibration carrying through
the rock. He was listening for something else, at the same time testing
the ill-smelling air for that betraying muskiness which spelled Throg.

When a twist in the narrow passage cut off the splotch of daylight,
Shann drew his stunner. The strongest bolt from that could not jolt a
Throg into complete paralysis, but