“Miramon,” Amalfi said tranquilly, “we’re in a spot. That city I told you about—the bindlestiff—is already here. It must have landed before we arrived, long enough ago to hide itself thoroughly. Probably it came down at night in some taboo area. The men in it have leagued themselves with FabrSuithe, anyhow, that much is obvious.”
A moth with a two-meter wingspread blundered across the clearing, piloted by a gray-brown nematode which had sunk its sucker above the ganglion between the glittering creature’s pinions. Amalfi was in a mood to read parables into things, and the parasitism reminded him anew of how greatly he had underestimated the enemy. The bindlestiff evidently knew, and was skillful at, the secret of manipulating a new culture; a shrewd Okie never attempts to overwhelm a civilization, but instead pilots it, as indetectably as possible, doing no apparent
harm, adding no apparent burden, but turning history deftly and tyrannically aside at the crucial instant— Amalfi snapped the belt switch of his ultraphone. “Hazleton?”
“Here, boss.” Behind the city manager’s voice was the indistinct rumble of heavy mining. “What’s up?”
“Nothing yet. Are you having any trouble out there?” “No. We’re not expecting any, either, with all this artillery.” “Famous last words,” Amalfi said. “The ‘stiff’s here, Mark.” There was a short silence. In the background, Amalfi could hear the shouts of Hazleton’s crew. When the city manager’s voice came in again, it was moving from word to word very carefully, as if it expected each one to break under its weight. “You imply that the ‘stiff was already on He when our Dirac broadcast went out. Right? I’m not sure these losses of ours can’t be explained some other way, boss; the theory . . . uh