went
down into the mountains. Ayesha Keithley arrived late in the afternoon
on another landing craft, with five or six tons of instruments and
parts and equipment, and a male Navy warrant-officer helper.

They looked around the lab Lillian had been using at one end of
the headquarters hut.

"This won't do," the girl Navy officer said. "We can't get a quarter
of the apparatus we're going to need in here. We'll have to build
something."

Dave Questell was drawn into the discussion. Yes, he could put
up something big enough for everything the girls would need to
install, and soundproof it. Concrete, he decided; they'd have to
wait till he got the water line down and the pump going, though.

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.
Mom had come out to see what was going on; Sonny and Howell, who
had been consulting by signs over the construction of a wagon, were
standing side by side. The Marine squeezed his trigger. The rifle
banged, and the Domesticated-C bounded into the air, dropped, and
kicked a few times and was still. The natives, however, missed that
part of it; they were howling piteously and rubbing their heads.
All but Sonny. He was just mildly surprised at what had happened
to the Dom.-C.

Sonny, it would appear, was stone deaf.

* * * * *

As anticipated, there was another uproar later in the morning when
the ditching machine started north across the meadow. A mob of
Svants, seeing its relentless progress toward a field of something
like turnips, gathered in front of it, twittering and brandishing
implements of agriculture, many of them Terran-made.

Paul Meillard was ready for this. Two lorries went out; one loaded
with Marines, who jumped off with their rifles ready. By this
time, all the Svants knew what rifles would do beside make a
noise. Meillard, Dorver, Gofredo and a few others got out of the
other vehicle, and unloaded presents. Gofredo did all the talking.
The Svants couldn't understand him, but they liked it. They also
liked the presents, which included a dozen empty half-gallon rum
demijohns, tarpaulins, and a lot of assor