Stepping onto the platform he threw a glance over his shoulder at the now-grey plate. "You're a very young race," he whispered, disappearing through the floor. * * * * * They dropped the few inches to the ground, bouncing a bit more than they'd allowed for, in the lessened gravity of Diamore. All around them the screams of the jungle meshed into one primal roar. Shreve ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek. The medic had flatly refused to allow their exit, unless they submitted to the six shots he felt were minimum safety precaution. With the feel of the electro-syringe still in his cheeks, Shreve stepped away from the monstrous plug-port, raising his arms in friendship. Behind him, Teller did the same. They moved slowly toward the Diamoraii. The twelve sat immobile, yet seeming to be looking from each other to the Earthmen, and back, in sharp, jerking motions. It was all illusion, but disquieting. As they stepped toward the aliens, Shreve felt the nerves in his teeth begin to twitch. He had been about to say something soothing in English, but the words never came out. _Who are you?_ The question appeared in his head full-blown, inquisitive, without sense of direction or distance. He knew immediately from where it had come, of course, yet he could not quite believe it. Shreve stopped dead, the pain in his jaws mounting. He glanced quickly at Teller. The shorter man was clutching his jaws with both hands, biting his lower lip and rocking back and forth, eyes half-closed. "Karl," Shreve's tongue stumbled over the words in his pain, "they're--migod, Karl--they're _telepathic_!" They stood rooted in their tracks, staring at the twelve impassive aliens in their grotesque masks. Teller stared in open fascination, still clutching his head. "The first," he murmured in awe. "The very first! They always said someday we'd meet them, and now, by God, we have!" His voice died off to a whisper and he stared unblinking at the dark-skinned Diamoraii. The words appeared in their minds once more--this time more firm, tinged with impatience: _Who are you?_ Shreve seemed unable to respond. He had thought them ignorant savages, on the verge of disaster, who would be jubilant at the offer of aid. Instead, he was faced with making contact; contact with the first mind-reading race Humanity had met racing through the stars. His throat tightened up, he could not speak. * * * * * Finally, he took a step forward, extended his hands in peace to the aliens. "Friends. We've come to help you. Friends." He was certain they couldn't understand the spoken words. Whether or not they could decipher the thoughts--that was something else. Later, the Earthmen could bring out the communicators if the need arose. But for now, he wanted only the soothing good will in his voice to win them.