The Kraylen's eyes dropped to the Earthman's naked breast. There was
black hair on it, and underneath the hair ran twisting, intricate lines
of silver and deep blue, tattooed with exquisite skill.
The old man's white crest nodded. Campbell turned and went back down
the path. The wind and the _liha_-trees, the hot blue night beat with
the anger and the hate of the little man with the drum.
Neither spoke until they were back in the hut. Campbell lit a smoky
lamp. The old Kraylen drew a long, slow breath.
"My almost-son," he said, "this is the last time I can give you refuge.
When you are able, you must go and return no more."