He'd ferried me down to the hilltop in the long shadows of early morning. I'd had to order him to return to the star ship. I stood now beside the communal mound. Moya had said, pointing down the hill, anger making him illogical: "These are the people you sold out when you transferred to Interstel. They could have used your kind of brains. Post-mortems aren't going to help them, now." It was simple, wasn't it? Something on E-T was a killer: quick and deadly. If it got any sort of clean shot at you-- Something visible. Something big enough to make a mark. And not static, like a thorn. A ground crawler? My pant's legs had been tucked securely into my boot tops. A flier? It would have to be strong enough to pierce a GS uniform and make an entrance into flesh. Or to leave a scratch from a glancing blow. And I hadn't seen anything. But only a recent problem. And restricted to the area beyond the stream. And random. And terribly innocent. Innocent enough to be overlooked until it was too late. _Think._ I thought and came up with a brainful of nothing. _Think again._ Strong enough to pierce two thicknesses of cloth--It must have gone entirely through, although the overzealousness of the crew had removed any possibility of proof. How about the bug suit? Assume the plastic was protection enough-- Wouldn't the wearer notice a blow? Or hear something? I'd felt but not heard. But then the rain had been falling. No insect had hit me forcibly before-- Moya and his helper had noticed nothing after-- A few meager drops of rain, sibilantly soaking into the eager soil of Epsilon-Terra. Whoever first mouthed that bit about cursing being the audible manifestation of a mediocre mind completely missed the point. There's something infinitely comforting in the crackle and sweep and roll of heartfelt invective. I left the site of the common grave and made it back to the hillside and shuttler IV as fast as discretion and terrain and my game leg would allow. * * * * * "I _am_ thinking," Moya grumbled over the comm. "If these details are so important, why--?" "Don't blame Interstel," I said. "The tapes were put together by GS headquarters." "Well, whoever. They should have included more information." "Thompson," I prodded. "Sure, sure, I remember him. Big, awkward, slow-moving--always babbling about plants." "What kind?" "_All_ kinds." "But anything particular? Something that he wanted to extract something from." "Well, let's see--He brought back lots of sample specimens, but there _was_ one that he played with all the way home. It was an insectivorous or carnivorous species, as I recall--" "Yes? Yes?" "That produced a chemical he thought might prove useful if it could be extracted and concentrated or synthesized--Now, hold on. Are you trying--?" "Why not? And why didn't you mention this sooner?" "For the simple reason--What got you off on this tangent?"