The old man spread long blue-white hands. His voice was heavy.
"Because we, the Kraylens, shall have ceased to be."
Campbell didn't say anything for a minute. He sat down on the
hide-frame cot and ran his fingers through his black hair.
"Tell me, Father," he said quietly, grimly.
The Kraylen's white crest rippled in the lamplight. "It is not your
fight."
Campbell got up. "Look. You've saved my neck more times than I can
count. You've accepted me as one of your own. I've been happier here
than any--well, skip that. But don't say it isn't my fight."
The pale, triangular old face smiled. But the white crest shook.
"No. There is really no fight. Only death. We're a dying tribe, a mere
scrap of old Venus. What matter if we die now--or later?"
Campbell lit a cigarette with quick, sharp motions. His voice was hard.
"Tell me, Father. All, and quick."