One of the middle limbs reached out and tugged at his arm experimentally. The native said something evidently meaning "Come along". Stuart walked along with him, reporting "Okay, so far," into his radio. The two beings walked up to the entrance to the cave, from where the scout ship could just be seen. Suddenly the smaller native sprang out of the brush and backed the linguist against a tree, holding the crossbow almost at his throat. The first native whirled, aimed the blast-rifle at the scout ship, and fired. There was a flash at the ship's bow, and a deep gash was blasted into the metal. "Aru!" said the natives. Stuart's earphone crackled, but the signal was weak. "What's going on?" came Gordon's voice, faintly. "Get away from them and we'll blow them to smithereens!" He tried to think clearly. "I don't know how to get away," he realized miserably. "Never had any of that combat training." He found the native with the blast-rifle chattering at him; the other had withdrawn the crossbow from his throat. "I'm all right," he reported weakly. He listened to the native a moment, then added, "This is rather puzzling, though. They actually seem friendly. I believe one of them is telling me that we're friends now." "That lousy iron hill you're on is killing your signal, Stuart. I can hardly hear you. You're in plain sight, though, through the telescope. Shall we come after you?" The natives were pulling at the linguist's arm, urging him toward the cave. "No, keep out of sight a while," he shouted, shaking his head. "I believe they want me to come with them." * * * * * The reply from the _Special Agent_ was unintelligible. Stuart allowed the Azurans to guide him into the cave; he was not surprised to find it the end of a long tunnel through the coral. Two other natives came running past and took up positions as guards just inside the entrance. The phosphorescent material of the hill itself supplied a feeble light. There seemed to be an alarm system of some sort, for handles were set into small square boxes on the walls every fifty meters or so. During the hour-long walk, Stuart learned bits of the natives' language. If one could apply the hitherto universally valid criteria of the Linguistic Academy, he decided, this language represented a long history of high culture and philosophical achievement. He found the idea encouraging. He was already constructing simple sentences when the tunnel turned sharply and entered a small cave. It was really an underground room, he noticed, with several corridors leading away. One of his guides pulled a lever; a moment later a dozen other natives entered the room. With them was a monkey-rat, sporting Rogers' two hunting knifes; it pointed to the linguist and chattered shrilly. The linguist recognized one of the Azurans as the one he had caught. The first to enter, however, seemed considerably older than the rest. Stuart guessed he was a high official.