Hidden Talent

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The spaceport on Mondarran IV was a small one, as might be expected on the sort of fifth-rate backwater world it was. Rygor Davison picked up his lone suitcase at the baggage depot and struck out into the dry, windy heat of mid-afternoon. The sun—G-type, hot—was high overhead, and a dusty brown dirt road ran crookedly away from the rudimentary spaceport toward a small gray village about a thousand meters away.

There was no one on hand to greet him. Not an impressive welcome, he thought, and began to walk down the dirt road toward the village which would be his home for the next five years—if he survived.

After he had gone half a dozen steps, he heard someone behind him, turned, and saw a small boy, heavily tanned, come trotting down the road. He was about eleven, and clad in a pair of golden swim trunks and nothing else. He seemed to be in a hurry.

“Whoa, youngster!” Davison called.

The boy looked up questioningly, slowed, and stopped, panting slightly. “Just get here? I saw the ship come down!”

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