He pointed toward the pale forest, from which a wary group of perhaps fourteen S'zetnurs, men and women, had emerged fearfully. Their hands--if they could be called hands--were flung up, like the woman's to cover their faces--if they could be called faces. And when they reached a distance of five yards from the silent group of Earthmen, all threw themselves down flat, their heads burrowing into the spiky grass. "Don't get it," Rob Cantrell drawled, hands on hips, legs spread apart as he stood regarding this strange welcome. "Look; all of them are deformed. Inbreeding, do you suppose? Or some kind of plague?..." "Sir, I believe it's a matter of vitamin deficiency," one of the biochemists spoke up from the group of Earthmen behind Harris. "I've been testing a few specimens under the micro. These white leaves--and look at that grass! It's the sunlight, I think. Not a bit of nutriment in the soil. Another thing," he pointed out shrewdly; "has anybody seen any animal-life yet? Ask me, I don't think there _is_ any! These poor critters are just _starving_ to death! Malnutrition. Years and years of it...." Cantrell scowled, his lips pursed; he said slowly, "You know, Jim, I believe you're right.... Well, _hell_!" He gestured impatiently to one of the cooks who had wandered over to join the curious group. "Break out some solid chow for these ... people. On the double!" "Yes _sir_!" Grinning with the sheer pleasure of filling a need, several of the crew followed the cook. They came back with folding plates and collapsible cups, filled to the brim with succulent stew made of dehydrated vegetables and pressed beef. These, a bit squeamishly, they put into the clumsy grasp of the little dwarfed S'zetnurs; laughing, they watched how they snatched it, turning their backs to their benefactors as they wolfed down the warm food.... The laughter died. For almost instantly three, then a dozen of the dwarfish creatures were doubled up with nausea and stomach-cramp. Others, gagging at the first bite, dropped their platters of food. Then all threw themselves down before the men from Terra, groveling in the grass at their feet as though begging for mercy.... "Lord, we're _stupid_!" Cantrell sighed. "Of _course_ they can't take our rich food! Probably been living on herbs and stuff for Lord knows how long...." He moved pityingly toward one groaning dwarf, writhing on the sward and hugging his stomach. "Hey, you medics! Give me hand--" He knelt, trying to roll the sufferer over on his back and slip a gastrotab between the writhing lips. But, with a look of terrified pleading, the little S'zetnur covered his face and flopped over again, hiding his warped features in a clump of pale weeds. With his fingerless hands he groped along the ground, found Cantrell's foot, and drew himself up to it, wriggling in worm-like obeisance-- Then, before the Earth pilot could move, a swollen tongue crept out and caressed his bare toes under the plastic sandal-strap.