The Brain-Stealers

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The space-craft landed. Silently. Gently. In deep forest. Within it there was venom and dissension. Silent venom. Soundless dissension. Thoughts. Only thoughts. A thought of bitter reproach—for gluttony. A thought of furious defensiveness. Angry, soundless accusations and counter-accusations. Then a cold, hard thought, reporting fact. The air outside the ship was good and the temperature bearable. There would be animals. Because of—the thought was icily savage, and meant gluttony—they would have to move of themselves, rather than be carried as was more convenient. But half a dozen of them should be able to handle any single animal on a strange world. There must be, though, no—again the savage thought of gluttony—until they had learned the nature of life on this world. Until they had some idea of its more intelligent and useful forms.

The craft that had landed was not large. Where it rested amid huge forest patriarchs, the branches had swerved aside and closed above it. It was hidden from above. But speckles of moonlight penetrated the leaves. They showed, presently, a circular slab in the ship's side in the act of unscrewing. It was a door.

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