"Probably a highly developed sense of hearing in this thin atmosphere," Allenby murmured. "Heard us coming." "They thought that landing of Burton's was an earthquake," Randolph grumbled sourly. "Marsquake," corrected Janus. One look at the village's scrawny occupants seemed to have convinced him that his life was in no danger. Holding the Martians covered, we examined the village from atop the thirty-foot dune. The domelike buildings were constructed of something that looked like adobe. No windows--probably built with sandstorms in mind. The doors were about halfway up the sloping sides, and from each door a stone ramp wound down around the house to the ground--again with sandstorms in mind, no doubt, so drifting dunes wouldn't block the entrances. The center of the village was a wide street, a long sandy area some thirty feet wide. On either side of it, the houses were scattered at random, as if each Martian had simply hunted for a comfortable place to sit and then built a house around it. "Look," whispered Randolph. One Martian had stepped from a group situated on the far side of the street from us. He started to cross the street, his round brown eyes on us, his small bare feet plodding sand, and we saw that in addition to a loincloth he wore jewelry--a hammered metal ring, a bracelet on one skinny ankle. The Sun caught a copperish gleam on his bald narrow head, and we saw a band of metal there, just above where his eyebrows should have been. "The super-chief," Allenby murmured. "Oh, _shaman_ me!" As the bejeweled Martian approached the center of the street, he glanced briefly at the ground at his feet. Then he raised his head, stepped with dignity across the exact center of the street and came on toward us, passing the dusty-looking buildings of his realm and the dusty-looking groups of his subjects. He reached the slope of the dune we lay on, paused--and raised small hands over his head, palms toward us. "I think," Allenby said, "that an anthropologist would give odds on that gesture meaning peace." He stood up, holstered his gun--without buttoning the flap--and raised his own hands over his head. We all did. * * * * * The Martian language consisted of squeaks. We made friendly noises, the chief squeaked and pretty soon we were the center of a group of wide-eyed Martians, none of whom made a sound. Evidently no one dared peep while the chief spoke--very likely the most articulate Martians simply squeaked themselves into the job. Allenby, of course, said they just _squeaked by_.