They were not carried on antigrav plates, nor were the mounts they rode akin to anything Jofre had imagined might exist. In the first place these bearers did not run four-footed, but walked erect using two trunk-thick back legs for propulsion. Their skin was bare of any hair or fur he could distinguish and seemed to be merely warty and puffy flesh, dark in color, nearly approaching the shade of the rock over which they now padded. Their heads were out of proportion to the rest of them, too small, and yet in a way disgustingly close to human though there was no sign of intelligence in their tiny eyes. Across their shoulders rested wide and heavy yokes which ended in loops of dangling chain that supported flat plates somewhat like the boards of swings. These they constantly steadied as they went with their great balls of hands. And in those bobbing swings rode the rest of the party.
On the first mount one of the beings transported a passenger who was clearly humanoid, perhaps even of distant Terran descent, dressed in what was almost a parody of a port commander's uniform. His companion who had the other swing of this first bearer startled Jofre. That dull black skin, the bristle of fire red hair—this might have been the twin of that alien—the man himself who had been watching him back on Wayright—except there was no possible way that the other could have reached Lochan before them, nor was there any place in the cramped quarters of the trader where he could have been concealed.
The human stared at Zurzal.
'I am Wok Bi, Commandant of Lochan Port,' he announced in a voice which had a metallic quality. 'This is a closed port—there can be no visitors.'
'I have this.' Zurzal held out a small coil of message tape already snapped into a reader hardly larger than a ring.
Wok Bi's glare did not diminish but he took the tape, gingerly, as if he feared that it might be an explosive device of some kind. Zurzal appeared to have no doubts of the efficacy of what he had brought in the way of introduction.
THE SELF-ANNOUNCED PORT COMMANDER ACTIVATED the tiny reader, though he seemed uneasy about taking his eyes from the Zacathan and Jofre long enough to absorb the message there, giving a couple of quick glances in their direction and losing nothing of the scowl with which he had welcomed them. Meanwhile Jofre made a study of the commander's force.
There were four of the huge transport creatures. And each had two passengers. Besides the red-maned one, there were three others of the same general appearance, save that their manes, instead of being flaming red, were of the same yellow shade as the land over which they had traveled. Jofre thought that if they lay facedown in that moss stuff, they might even be invisible. Another of the group from the 'city' was closer to the conventional humanoid and unlike his companions wore an enveloping robe of grey, like the rock underfoot, over which there sprawled a pattern of meaningless and formless lines. His round skull was as hairless as that of Captain Gosal and the skin was yellow as Haperian honey, with a sleek overcasting as if he had been carefully rubbed down with a doubtful grease. His features were blunter than those of the maned men, his mouth so wide and lipless in appearance that it might have been merely a slit cut in the puffed skin.
His eyeballs protruded until Jofre wondered if he were able to close the wrinkled lids entirely over them. And the, eyes seemed to be like surface mirrors, giving nothing away as they met Jofre's and swept on. His alienness was even more apparent than that of his maned companions, but it would seem that he occupied some position of authority among them, for two had hurried to aid him from his traveling sling and fell in a pace or so behind as he waddled towards the commander.
The last two of the party slid off their swings but made no move to advance. Like the greasy one they wore robes of grey but these lacked any touch of pattern. One swung back an arm as if impatient of that covering and Jofre saw muscular yellow flesh—but more, a weapons belt from which hung a curved blade as brightly kept as any of his own steel.
Though they wore robes, they remained aloof from their fellow in the like garb. However, their faces had something of the same general traits—the wide mouths, the protruding eyes. Only these boasted head decorations of a kind, a ragged kind of crest running from between the eyes on the forehead back to the nape of the neck, Jofre could not distinguish whether that was artificial or, as Zurzal's frill, a natural flap of skin.
'You presume much—' The voice of the commander jerked his attention back to the Zacathan and the man who fronted him.
'I do not presume, Commander. I ask no more than what the Central Control has for centuries of your time granted my people. We are the Keepers—'
It was plain that the commander was impressed against his will, either by the unperturbed attitude of the Zacathan or by whatever credentials had been a part of the message on the reader.
'This is a closed planet, Learned One. We have no facilities for expeditions, nor would such be allowed if we did. There is life out there'—he swept a hand towards the horizon—'which considers any stranger rich prey. You are truly a fool if you believe that you can reach even the edge of the Shattered Land.'
For the first time the oily one took part in the conversation. He gabbled a stream of squeaks, high and thin, and very strange when proceeding from his massive body. Zurzal made a quick grasp at the array of tools hanging from his belt he had equipped with care just before their landing. His taloned hand swept out of its loop a disc which he swung up before the speaker. The man gave a squeal and backed off a step, while those two who had established themselves as his attendants snarled, showing fangs as sharp as the knives which had appeared, apparently out of nowhere, in their hands.
'A translator—my speech to you, yours to me,' Zurzal stated calmly, though Jofre was at his shoulder, ready to move if those two yellow-maned toughs did dare an attack.
There was a squeaking from the disc and the oily one started as if a fassnake had arisen from the ground at his very feet and was weaving its war dance in the air. Then those huge eyes blinked. One of the puffy hands sketched a gesture in the air between them. Jofre thought he needed no translation for that—this native of Lochan was warding off evil.
'Off-world evil!' The squeakings suddenly made sense. 'Who are you—serpent skin—to travel our land? What do you seek? It can be nothing good.'
'I seek knowledge, and that is better than ignorance, Worshipful One. What I may be able to find will be freely shared with your learned ones. Are you not one such yourself?'
Again those huge eyes blinked. The hand trembled as if again he would form the ward sign, but he did not carry that through. Instead the tip of a green tongue appeared between those narrow lips and ran from side to side as if to prepare the way for some important message.
