The Salarik laid one hand on the smooth surface of the sealed compartment
and looked back over his shoulder at Dane with an inquiry to which was
added something of a plea. Guided by his instinct--that this was
important to them all--Dane spoke to Mura:
"Can you let him in there, Frank?"
It was not sensible, it might even be dangerous. But every member of the
crew knew the necessity for making some sort of contact with the natives.
Mura did not even nod, but squeezed by the Salarik and pressed the lock.
There was a sign of air, and the crisp smell of growing things, lacking
the languorous perfumes of the world outside, puffed into the faces.
The cub remained where he was, his head up, his wide nostrils visibly
drinking in that smell. Then he moved with the silent, uncanny speed
which was the heritage of his race, darting down the narrow aisle toward
a mass of greenery at the far end.
Sinbad kicked and growled. This was his private hunting ground--the
preserve he kept free of invaders. Dane put the cat down. The Salarik had
found what he was seeking. He stood on tiptoe to sniff at a plant, his
yellow eyes half closed, his whole stance spelling ecstasy.
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