"Dorothy--those things you saw running when we were circling down--I missed 'em," Wright said. "Poor eyesight, and seems to me the air was still misty from _Argo's_ crash in the lake. They were going south, away from here? And they could have been--people like these?" "Yes. Hundreds or thousands of them. I suppose the crash of _Argo_ must have seemed like the heavens falling. The lifeboats too." "I think we interrupted a war." "These would be survivors? Live in this part of the jungle maybe? Looking for what's left after those--those flying beasts--" "It makes sense," Wright said. "They're more afraid of the sky than of our setup over here. Maybe we're gods who came down to help them. If we did help them. Look: they've found another.... Yes, now the prayer.... Wish Mijok wasn't so afraid of them. Inevitable. To them I suppose he's an ugly wild animal. Different species, similar enough to be shocked at the similarity. 'Tain't good." "Do we try for a foot in both camps?" "Paul, I think I'll take a rain check on answering that.... Ach--if I could go out there now--communicate--" "No!" Dorothy gasped. "Not while the others are still sick." "You're right of course." Wright fretted at his beard stubble. "I get sillier all the time. As Ed would tell me if he were up and around. It's the high oxygen...." There were brown splashes in the sky. The pygmies saw the peril first and darted for the woods--an orderly flight however--the woman with the hide in front, the blue-skirted woman next, then the bowmen. Three of the latter turned bravely and shot arrows that glittered and whined. The brown beasts wheeled and flapped angrily upward, though the buzzing arrows dropped far short of them. The pygmies gained the trees; the omasha scouted the edge of the woods, squawking, three of them drifting toward the lifeboat, weaving heads surveying the ground. Paul gave way to unfamiliar savage enjoyment. "Do we, Doc?" "Yes," said Wright, and took aim himself. All three were brought down, at a cost of four irreplaceable rifle bullets and two shots from Dorothy's automatic. Mijok bellowed with satisfaction but recoiled as Wright dragged a dirty brown carcass into the clearing. "A dissection is in order." Mijok grumbled and fidgeted. "Don't fret, Mijok." Wright pegged down the wings of the dead animal with sharp sticks and drew an incision on the leathery belly with his hunting knife. "Good head shot, Paul--this one's yours. We'll do a brain job from one of the others, but I think we'll let that wait for Sears--oh my, yes...! Doesn't weigh over thirty pounds. Hollow bones like a bird's, very likely. Hope they'll keep." "You hope," Dorothy sniffed. "What do you do when I turn housewife and instruct you to get that awful mess the hell off my nice clean floor?"