Mom had come out to see what was going on; Sonny and Howell, who
had been consulting by signs over the construction of a wagon, were
standing side by side. The Marine squeezed his trigger. The rifle
banged, and the Domesticated-C bounded into the air, dropped, and
kicked a few times and was still. The natives, however, missed that
part of it; they were howling piteously and rubbing their heads.
All but Sonny. He was just mildly surprised at what had happened
to the Dom.-C.
Sonny, it would appear, was stone deaf.
* * * * *
As anticipated, there was another uproar later in the morning when
the ditching machine started north across the meadow. A mob of
Svants, seeing its relentless progress toward a field of something
like turnips, gathered in front of it, twittering and brandishing
implements of agriculture, many of them Terran-made.
Paul Meillard was ready for this. Two lorries went out; one loaded
with Marines, who jumped off with their rifles ready. By this
time, all the Svants knew what rifles would do beside make a
noise.
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