He could see the problem, all right. Of the five Earthmen there, one was an Arab in a dirty burnoose, one looked like a young Apache Indian in old farm clothes, and one, at a guess, came from Chinese Turkestan and smelled of camels. The other two were closer to home. One was medium-tall and stocky, with a thick chest and thin strong legs. He wore faded Levis and high-heeled boots and his face was burned brick-red to the middle of his forehead. Above that his skin was as white as a baby's. A Stetson hat hung on a peg over his bunk. The fifth man, who sat beside him, was cut out of the same cloth, but somehow with a difference. Wyatt was puzzled for a minute, and then he remembered once seeing an Australian movie with a long lean leathery actor named Chips Rafferty in it playing a stockman, and he thought he had the answer. The other six men in the room were not from Earth. The other six men in the room were not human. Not as Wyatt was used to thinking of human, homo sapiens, tracing a well-fossilized descent back through the various _anthropus_ forms and ultimately to the primal ancestor. These six walked erect and had facile hands and humanoid bodies and quite handsome faces, but whatever their primal ancestor had been it had not been like man's. It had left them a legacy of body hair that could not be called anything else but fur, and their skulls were curiously elongated rather than domed, and their finger-tips still had their ancient claws, retracting catlike into the flesh. Catlike, Wyatt thought, was a good word for them--and yet not quite Earthly-catlike. The ears were too round, the eyes too large and dark and capable of warmth. They wore garments of fine cloth in bright shades to set off their individual color, and in size and facial conformation they were as different from each other as the Earthmen were. They looked at Wyatt, sitting in two double rows on the edges of their bunks. The Earthmen looked at Wyatt. And in no eye, human or humanoid, was there a spark of friendliness. Wyatt said, "Hello." There was no answer. The stocky man and the long lean one got up, and each one hitched up his pants and left the thumbs of his hands sticking negligently in the waistband. "Look," said Wyatt, annoyed, "I didn't come here because I wanted to, but I haven't got smallpox or whooping cough, and I haven't wronged anyone's sister." The two men began to walk slowly forward. The young Apache rose and came after them, a dark gleam flickering deep in his eyes. The Arab rose, and then the Turcoman, and then the six lithe furry men came dropping one by one from the edges of their bunks and all of them moved toward Wyatt, not speaking. A cold qualm of fear contracted his heart. He set his back against the door and braced himself. "What is this?" he said. "What are you doing? I'm an Earthman, a captive like you. Why--" "You're no Earthman," said the stocky southwesterner, in a very cold, mild voice. "You're another goddamn lousy spy."