“They can be taught not to fear us,” Greybeard said absently. “After that vital lesson, we should be able to give them plenty of help.”
“Of course it must be as you say. But they’re virtually a new race — perhaps ideally they shouldnot be taught not to fear us,” Martha said. She laid a hand across his shoulder as she rose.
Greybeard chewed over the implications of that remark as he watched her walk forward. She bent over the improvised stretcher, smiling as she began gently to change young Arthur’s bandage. For a minute her husband looked at her, her hands, her face, and at the child solemnly staring up into her eyes.
Then he turned his head, resting one hand on his rifle as with the other he shaded his brow and pretended to gaze ahead at the horizon where the hills were.
