“No,” said Pazilliwheep, “our friends on 143 aren’t what you would call the go-getter type. They’re content to sell us their services, use of landing space, a few kinds of goods. Mainly they take biologicals in exchange—you know, longevity pills and, uh, other medicines. Ask them yourself if you doubt my word.”

  “I do not, of course,” Klak’t’klak answered through Urgo. “But I gather the planet holds numerous cultures. Perhaps they are being treated unfairly. Might they not, for example, be worthy of Federation membership too?”

  “Chaos, no!” Pazilliwheep paused. “Well, I suppose they’re no worse than some I could name. But no better, either. We do make spot checks, we traders, in the hope of finding new potential markets. But the majority of 143ans haven’t shown any improvement in the better than two centuries that the blob’s been visited. They’ve got a drab, fragmented, quarrelsome, early-mechanical kind of civilization. Last time I was there, we noticed traces of manned landings on the single moon. That indicates the stage they’re at. If they learned the Federation exists—”

  “They would have to be admitted to membership if they asked.”

  “Exactly! And can you imagine the results? Those dismal characters would yell for so much technical assistance that their whole planet would be one gigantic college for the next fifty years. Sector taxes would go up ten percent, I’ll bet, to finance it. We’d have to stop using our base, probably, because of their confounded nationalistic regulations about passports and I don’t know what other nonsense. And there isn’t as handy a planet for us within a hundred light-years.” Pazilliwheep gestured violently. “And all this sacrifice on our part for what? To add one more lousy space-traveling species—competing right in our trade lanes to the Rim!”

  “You are satisfied with the status quo, then?”

  “Right. The 143ans who do know about us and do have membership are friendly, dignified, unaggressive, mind-their-own-business people who’ll work for us when we need help at an honest wage for honest labor, and who produce salable handicrafts. Do you wonder that we hide our existence from everyone else?”

  “No. Frankly, I cannot help suspecting you underpay your native help; that is what ‘honest wage for honest labor’ usually means. But I am more concerned with ascertaining whether the planet has other civilizations that would, on balance, prove an asset to the Federation. Rather than read the sporadic reports of untrained and biased observers, I want to investigate and decide for myself.”

  Even through Urgo’s translation, Pazilliwheep noted how Klak’t’klak had dropped his elegant periods for shorter sentences in a sharper tone. The navigator pilot sighed and resigned his soul. All right, he’d be hung up for a while on 143, chauffeuring the sector inspector around, assisting with instruments, catching natives for interviews. (This was done in such wise that, after they were released, no one believed their story. Experience had shown that the best ploy on 143 was the Benign Observers of Elder Race.) He and Urgo would be at once busy and bored.

  Yet…eventually they’d start drawing overtime pay. And the mission on 143 wouldn’t likely be prolonged. If nothing else, Grumdel Castle was uncomfortable. Her cramped cabins, vibrating decks, rusty metal, chipped plastic, wheezy ventilators, and uninspired galley saw to that. In addition, she carried so few books and tapes suitable for Klak’t’klak that he would have them memorized in weeks. Pazilliwheep and Urgo always laid in recreational materials before a voyage. But what use to an Ittatikan were Ensiktan murder mysteries and Bontuan pornography?

  And so Grumdel Castle creaked and groaned the long dark way to the Solar System. She took up orbit around the third planet while Pazilliwheep checked for indications of excessive radioactivity, smog, and other hazards of an early-mechanical culture. Meanwhile Urgo the Red went outside to install camouflage tubes on the hull.

  His shipmates saw his fur as bright blue; but then, they didn’t use a visual spectrum identical with the Bontuan. The engineer supercargo was a tailless biped, eight feet tall and broad to match. His head was round, short-muzzled, big-eyed, fuzzy, and rather endearing. His hands were five-fingered, his feet four-toed. In spite of his hirsute skin, he affected white coveralls, sandals, and an ornate belt.

  He clumped in again and shed his spacesuit. “Guess they’ll hang together a while,” he reported, “but if the owners don’t spring for a new set when we get home, I’m gonna look for another berth. How’s the planet doin’?”

  “About as before. I note more air traffic each time, though, damn it.” Pazilliwheep said. “Also, today, what appears to be a manned orbital satellite. We’ll have to wait here till the stupid thing’s on the opposite side of the globe.”

  Klak’t’klak inquired why they lingered. Urgo explained. Grumdel Castle used a camouflage standard on worlds of this atmospheric type, where it was desired to fly unbeknownst. The natives could not detect an operating hyperdrive; if they had that capability, they’d soon be making their own starships! And antiradiation screens served to control air molecules as well as atomic particles, making even the fastest travel soundless. But you were still stuck with the fact that your ship was a solid, visible, radar-reflecting object.

  So you wrapped her in the gaudiest ionized gas-discharge effect you could generate. You added powerful magnetic and electrostatic fields, and varied them randomly. You sailed in, alerting every eye and every instrument for a hundred miles around—

  Just like a natural traveling plasmoid.

  But since those erratic masses of molecules and electrons occur in atmosphere, and the ship was in space, she must first sneak down.

  Presently she did. Near her destination, she spied a native aircraft. At Klak’t’klak’s request, she veered close so he could get a good look. Then she headed off for the home of that 143an people who, during the past two hundred years, had been members in good standing of the Galactic Federation.

  On the assumption that the flying saucer would continue in a straight line, Sean Lindquist zigzagged along the same general path. After half an hour he was rewarded. He crossed above an immense red ridge. Its farther slope tumbled into a canyon whose bottom was the most vivid green he’d spied in a long while. Squarish adobe buildings were stacked against one rock wall, overlooking a stream lined with trees. But what made his pulses jump afresh was the object that lay before the houses. The dazzling, confusing play of colors was gone; the shape had definite outlines and a dark gray hue; but it was surely the thing that had buzzed him. And by all the saints and any heathen gods who cared to join in—it was a vessel!

  He tilted his airplane’s wings, crammed on power, and whipped back the way he had come. A thermal nearly tossed him from control. But he must get out of sight before he was observed and—

  And what? Some kind of ray gun shot him down? He ran his tongue across lips gone sandpapery. The ship had to be from outer space: real outer space, the unimaginable abysses that held the stars. He’d followed the progress of flybys and landings within the Solar System. Hence he knew that, while the saucerians might be little and emerald-colored, they were not from any neighborhood planet. He also knew enough aerodynamics to be sure no terrestrial organization was experimenting with stuff that advanced. Even if he had been ignorant of the engineering requirements, he was learned in the ways of public relations offices…“Stop maundering, will you?” he croaked.

  What to do?

  He kept the plane wobbling back and forth on the far side of the mountain while, feverishly, he studied his charts and tried to discover where he was. Uh, yes…“Wuwucimti,” plus the symbol for Population 0-1000…evidently a pueblo, and lonely as hell, to judge from the fact that nothing led away from it except a dim mule trail…Numbly, like parts of a machine rather than a body, his fingers activated the radio. If he could raise, oh, Gallup or Durango or wherever…make his location known, so it wouldn’t do the aliens any good to destroy him…A distant seething filled his earphones. Whether atmospherics or They were responsible, he couldn’t get through.

  He got his pipe off the floor, reloaded and relit it, and fumed himself into a measure of calm. A long gulp from a bottle that lived in his sleeping bag was equally helpful. Consider, Lindquist. he thought. You’ve stumbled on a secret to shake the world. But this is hardly our first visit from yonder. Leaving aside the mistakes, the hoaxes, and the claims of the nut cults, there always was a certain amount of saucer observation that couldn’t be explained away. At least, it was easier to believe in spaceships than in some of those concatenations of coincidences that the orthodox scientists postulated! And now you’ve got proof that the ship hypothesis is right. Only, who’s going to take your unsupported word? Supposing you could go fetch witnesses, the thing’s bound to be gone when you return. You’d get classed with Adamski and his breed.

  For which same reason, you’ll keep your mouth shut.

  Hey! he reflected with rising eagerness. How many people have actually met saucerians, and been disbelieved afterward? And, on that account, how many more have met them and—not wanting to be laughed at—simply kept mum?

  After all…what little consistent evidence there is—indicates the saucerians aren’t evil. They’re shy, or snobbish, or something, but I can’t remember anyone ever claiming that they do any deliberate harm. So maybe, this time, I can—

  Allowing himself no second thoughts, Lindquist brought the plane about. He roared back over the mountain, chose his position, tilted wings, and commenced vertical descent.

  Updrafts were tricky; and this was a somewhat battered, cranky craft he had. For a while he was too occupied with controls, instruments, hiss and shudder around him, to heed much else. He did see how the saucer squatted imperturbable in the bright late sunlight. Tawny mudbrick walls, red canyon sides, deep blue sky, green meadows and cornfields, green cottonwoods and willows along the quicksilver stream, dusty sage and juniper farther back—and in the middle, a spaceship from the stars!

  His landing gear touched. He cut the power. Silence hit him like a thunderclap. He unharnessed, opened the door, and sprang shakily forth. The air was thin, dry, pungent with resinous odors. Except for a breeze, tinkle of water, bleating from a pasture shared by sheep and goats, the silence continued.

  It was not broken by the approaching locals. They were ordinary Pueblo types, a few hundred medium-sized dark-complexioned folk of every apparent age. Men and women both wore their hair in braids. Clothing varied, from more or less traditional breechclouts, gowns, and blankets, to levi’s and sports shirts. Lindquist’s sharpened perceptions noted that the people were better clad, seemed more healthy and prosperous, than the average southwest Indian. And they were strangely uncordial. Not that they threatened him. But they drew up in a kind of phalanx, and stared, and said never a word. Even the littlest children sucked their thumbs in a marked manner.

  Lindquist gulped. “Uh…hello,” he said. His voice sounded very small to him. “I’m afraid I, uh, don’t speak your language.” They might know Spanish. “Buenos dias, mis amigos.” Trouble was, that damn near exhausted his Spanish.

  A grizzled, weather-beaten man called softly, “Sikyabotoma.” Lindquist said, “I beg your pardon?” but decided it was the name of a young man who stepped to the elder. They put heads together and conferred in mutters.

  Lindquist gulped again, nodded, pasted on a smile, and started toward the flying saucer. At once he grew so conscious of it—so astonished, for instance, at the pitted, corroded metal of what had once been a smooth unitized shape—that the Indians faded from his mind. Colliding with them was a shock. Several had moved to intercept him.

  They were embarrassed. The pueblo dwellers are among the politest beings on Earth. They smiled, in a forced way, bobbed their heads and waved their hands. They pushed gently on Lindquist’s arms, as if to urge him toward their houses.

  Anger flared. “No, thanks!” he snapped, and planted his heels.

  The young man rescued the situation. He was among those who wore modern clothes, including the gaudiest sombrero Lindquist had ever met. He sauntered forth, tapped the newcomer on the back, and said, “Excuse me, buddy. That’s not the way.”

  “What?” Lindquist whirled to confront him.

  “Welcome to Wuwucimti Pueblo,” the Indian said. “I’m Sikyabotoma. But in the Army I used the name Joe Andrews. Picked that because it’s handy being near the head of the alphabet. So if you want, call me Joe. Come on inside and have a drink.”

  “I…I thought…you—”

  “You needn’t be surprised. Sure, the Hopi don’t approve of liquor as a rule. But they need somebody like me, who’s equipped to handle white men. Like, I interpret when we take the mules to town and stock up on things. And I did do a military hitch. So I’ve gotten a few outside habits. It’s good bourbon.”

  “But…I mean—” Lindquist twisted his neck to goggle at what lay now behind his back. “I never imagined—”

  “Yes, it is unusual,” Sikyabotoma agreed cordially. He linked arms with Lindquist, who must needs come along as he ambled in the direction of the village. “We’re the most isolated pueblo in the country. Not awful old. A bunch of Shoshonean-speaking Hopi moved here to get away from the Spaniards after the revolt of 1680 was put down. So we have a tradition of minding our own affairs, and we discourage visitors. Nothing rude, you understand. We just don’t do anything interesting when the anthropologists come. And we got rid of the missionaries by telling the last padre who showed that we’d already been converted to hard-shell Baptists.”

  The other Indians trailed after at some distance. They kept their silence. “Please don’t think we’re hostile,” Sikyabotoma urged. “We’re only satisfied. We combine the old and the new as suits us best; and we do quite well for ourselves, on the whole; and everybody among us knows it. Regular contact with the outside world would upset our applecart. So we act pretty unanimously to defend our privacy. Unanimity comes natural in the Hopi culture anyhow. If you’re in trouble, we’ll help you, Mr., uh…”

  “Lindquist,” said Lindquist feebly.

  “We’ll do what we can for you. But if you dropped in out of curiosity, well, I hate to sound inhospitable, but the fact is you’d find Wuwucimti a mighty dull place. Lively young fellow like you, huh? I’d suggest you proceed right away. And, uh, I’d take it as a favor if you don’t mention this stop you made. We’re not after tourist business and that’s that. You savvy?”

  “Dull?” Lindquist tore loose. He spun, flung out both arms toward the great spaceship, and shouted, “You call that dull?” so echoes rang.

  “Well, not to me, of course,” Sikyabotoma said. “I get my kicks. And the average pueblo dweller is staid by nature.”

  “Flying saucers and…and…”

  Sikyabotoma regarded Lindquist narrowly. “Do you feel O.K.?” he asked.

  “Sure, I feel O.K.! What about that flying saucer over there?”

  Sikyabotoma squinted. “What flying saucer?”

  “What do you mean? I…I…I chased it…to here…and there it sits!”

  “Awa-Tsireh,” called Sikyabotoma, “do you see a flying saucer?”

  A middle-aged Indian looked solemnly back and shook his head. “No,” he grunted. “No see fly sawsuh.”

  “I’ll ask the others in Hopi if you want,” Sikyabotoma offered. “But you know, Mr. Lindquist, when people aren’t used to this thin air and sun glare, they can mistake mirage effects for some of the damndest things. I’d be careful about that if I were you. Flitting around in an airplane, a guy has to be mighty sure what’s real and what’s an optical illusion. Doesn’t he?”

  Lindquist stared for an entire minute into the broad bland face. The others moved closer, and had also begun to smile and murmur soothing words. Briefly, in his tottering mind, he wondered if he was not indeed the crazy one.

  No! He sprang back and launched himself. His legs flew. Dust spurted, the footfalls slammed through his shins, and he made an end run around the tribe. Meanwhile he bawled:

  “Do radars have illusions? Do compasses? By heaven…let me…at my instruments…and I’ll show you!”

  He reached the ship. Its curve swelled immense above him, casting a knife-edge shadow. He snatched a rock and pounded the metal. It boomed. A lizard ran away. The sandstone crumbled under repeated impacts. “Is that optical?” he screamed.

  The Hopi had been running toward him. But once more they halted at a distance. Sikyabotoma came nearer. The young Indian stopped, regarded Lindquist, and sighed.

  “O.K.,” he said. “I didn’t really expect it’d work. Have your way, Charlie.”

  He semaphored with his arms.

  Lindquist stepped back from the ship, panting, sweating, trembling. The canyon brooded in a quiet immense and eternal; only the wind had voice. Then came a rusty creak.

  Someone had been watching from inside, through some kind of television. And in some fashion, a part of the hull detached itself on three sides and unrolled, to make a gangway to the ground. Three creatures came forth. Lindquist saw them and strangled on an oath that was half a prayer.

  Sikyabotoma took a philosophical attitude. “You ought to see what membership in the Galactic Federation has done to our kachina dolls,” he remarked. “The real ones, that we don’t show the anthropologists.”

  “This is most annoying,” Klak’t’klak said. He flapped his wings. They made a parchment rustle where he squatted in the sunshine, under the spaceship, confronting the bug-eyed 143an.

  “Sure is,” Urgo the Red agreed. “We gotta get rid of this bum. And then we gotta stay away from here for several days—prob’ly go into orbit—in case he does somehow talk somebody into comin’ back with him. Right when I was hopin’ to get that Number Three regulator tuned!”

  “I was thinking more personally,” the inspector admitted. “I am not prepared to conduct interviews. That is, my translating computer has not yet assimilated the records of this planet’s dominant languages which the autochthons brought me from their…ah…what did they call it?…their kiva. And I hate working through interpreters.