He heard the children returning, and crouched lower. A few clots of garbage spattered against the post--teasers, to make him angry, so he'd turn to howl his rage, and offer his face as a target. Good memories, these little beasts had. It was almost a year since he'd last done that.... Well, he had a memory, too. And while they pelted him--from fairly close range, now, with sharp rocks among the wads of filth--he could take refuge in the memory of those last glorious days on Earth. * * * * * Remembrance was itself a change brought by the roaring ship; usually he moped in a vegetative daze. But now he recalled how he'd looked in the tight white uniform: six feet of well-fed muscle accentuated by the garment's lines, the blue stars on each lapel just matching his eyes, the peak of his cap harmonizing with the straight line of his jaw. He remembered how he'd sounded, speaking words of nonchalant and unfelt modesty in the soft Southern voice the girls had liked so well. He could have had his pick of girls. He'd been a picked man himself. Highly selected--that was the phrase. He was highly selected, Chet reminded himself, shrinking as the children came closer and their missiles began to really hurt. He'd been highly selected since his eighteenth year. At 25 he'd had seven years of pre-flight training--seven years of indoctrination specifically designed to give him self-confidence enough to face the void itself without flinching. Now he flinched from children.... Still, the schooling had worked, he acknowledged--so well that when their ship crashed into this planet Hedlot's salty sea, his first reaction had been indignation at the elements. His second thought had been for his comrades. But they went down with the ship; he alone had been hurled clear. Learning that, he'd swum resolutely in the direction he knew the shore to be, and made it. Exhausted, all right--shocked, naked, half-dead really. But quite ready to point out his rank and identity to the first passer-by. Lucky for him, Chet mused, that he'd had no chance to express his callow arrogance. Shock saved his life--sank him into a stupor, so when the Agvars found him, he was helpless. He knew it was only because it had seemed perfectly safe that they'd tied him up and brought him to the village, instead of killing him then and there. By the time he'd recovered somewhat from the initial shock and exhaustion, they were used to him, convinced he was harmless if well chained-up. And they played it safe by giving him nothing but a little water--no clothing, no shelter, no food.... They let him live, amused by the thirst that drove him to lap up each morning's drenching dew, fascinated by his ravenous appetite for the garbage they flung at him. The Agvars--furry, savage half-men, with something of the dog and something of the ape and little of the man about them--the Agvars let him live, Chet realized, for exactly one reason: he made them feel superior.