Spliid flashed a light, briefly. "What did they dig it with?" "Spade--shovel." "Steel blade?" "Iron, anyway. I reported on that I don't know where they get metals." Spliid flashed his light again, grunted. "No marker." Rowley nodded. "That's right. I thought about it at the time and wondered. I thought of mentioning it to Tsu. Know why I didn't?" Spliid grunted again. "I thought, if I did, somebody would come out of the trees, bringing a marker. Probably two sticks tied in a cross. Get what I mean?" "Gimme the shovel," said Spliid. Rowley handed him the collapsible entrenching tool he had been carrying. The Commander bent his back, scooped at the dirt. He worked swiftly, carefully, almost silently. "About eighteen inches deep, you said?" "About." Spliid fell to again. The metal blade chinked dully on moist clods. After a time, Spliid flashed his light again. His free hand entered the cone of yellow shine, prodded the moist dirt. He was on his knees, reaching far down into the hole he had dug. "I've gone by loose dirt," he puffed. "There's no body here, Cliff." "She was dead and I saw them bury her," Rowley insisted stubbornly. "Maybe hypnotism. I felt they were putting on a show for me. I keep asking myself why, and then I turn to the facts." "What facts?" "Why...." Rowley hesitated. "Hume has been classified a closed world. I think that's what they want. If this world had been uninhabited when Exploration turned it up, Colonisation would be surveying it now for settlement. If the population had a civilization above Class G, we'd be arranging to bring them up to the technological level of the rest of the galaxy. But we shut a two X sub one world away from contact with the galaxy to avoid disturbing the natural progress of the natives. How many thousands of years before Hume will be ready? Somehow, I feel they know more about us than we think they do ... and they're only too happy to be left to themselves." "Rubbish! Why?" "Why do they want it, or why do I think so? I don't know the answer either way. If you've ever seen a stage play, you'll understand what I mean. Everything about a stage play is phoney. You watch the play, knowing it isn't real. The scenery and backdrop are just painted imitations. All right--but the actions of the characters on the stage serve something like a catalyst. Your faculties of critical observation are suspended, and the play becomes real. For the time of the play, you are caught up in the illusion of reality that grips you. That's the way it is here on Hume. "You look around you in the broad light of day. You see a pastoral idyll. Everybody's happy. Everybody gets along with everybody else. All the people are beautiful, agreeable and kind. They have a simple culture, too far down the scale to admit to intercourse with the rest of the galaxy. "Look twice, though, and you see something else...." "All right," said Spliid. "Let's get back to camp."