XI

by Isaac Asimov

　　The Industrialist stared, looked at the Astronomer, turned to stare again.

　　"Those?"

　　"Those," said the Astronomer. "I have no doubt we appear strange and repulsive to them."

　　"What do they say?"

　　"Why, that they are uncomfortable and tired and even a little sick, but that they are not seriously damaged, and that the youngsters treated them well."

　　"Treated them well! Scooping them up, keeping them in a cage, giving them grass and raw meat to eat? Tell me how to speak to them."

　　"It may take a little time. Think _at_ them. Try to listen. It will come to you, but perhaps not right away."

　　The Industrialist tried. He grimaced with the effort of it, thinking over and over again, "The youngsters were ignorant of your identity."

　　And the thought was suddenly in his mind: "We were quite aware of it and because we knew they meant well by us according to their own view of the matter, we did not attempt to attack them."

　　"Attack them?" thought the Industrialist, and said it aloud in his concentration.

　　"Why, yes," came the answering thought. "We are armed."

　　One of the revolting little creatures in the cage lifted a metal object and there was a sudden hole in the top of the cage and another in the roof of the barn, each hole rimmed with charred wood.

　　"We hope," the creatures thought, "it will not be too difficult to make repairs."

　　The Industrialist found it impossible to organize himself to the point of directed thought. He turned to the Astronomer. "And with that weapon in their possession they let themselves be handled and caged? I don't understand it."

　　But the calm thought came, "We would not harm the young of an intelligent species."