Massacre!
Sheridan puffed and panted in the thick air. He took occasional shots with his Kodak as they approached the outskirts of the small village.
Then he stopped. He had no choice; Kurt threw up a rigid arm and he ran into it.
“I don’t like this,” Kurt said. “Some of the natives should have been out to greet us by now.”
“Perhaps they’re busy doing, uh, mining things,” Sheridan suggested. Then he smelled the unmistakable noxious reek of death. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
The three crewmen who had accompanied them had rifles at the ready. Kurt drew his sidearm. They approached more carefully.
The first hut they came to was empty. The second, however, was not. Sheridan glanced inside, then turned away, sickened at the sight of a heap of lizard-men piled one atop the other. Small insects circled around the bodies, iridescent wings glistening with the blood they’d dipped into.
“Mister Sheridan,” said Kurt calmly, “would you be so kind as to document this with your camera device?”
“With pleasure,” said Sheridan grimly. He took several shots of the interior of the hut. “Who could have done this horrible thing?” he asked when he was done. “Some sort of tribal warfare, is it?”
“No, indeed.” Kurt motioned further towards the pathway leading into the rest of the village. “Look at this.” He strode forward and picked up a rifle lying discarded, as if it had been tossed away in flight. “This is a .577 Snider-Enfield. The British use this rifle. On this planet, only the British.” He handed the weapon to one of the crewman.
“But surely you cannot be suggesting…”
Kurt turned and glared at Sheridan. “I am suggesting nothing, Mister Sheridan. You have eyes. See for yourself. Come. We will investigate.”
Curiouser and curiouser, thought Sheridan as he followed the oberst. He knows more than he’s saying. He picks up a rifle and ignores the fact that there may well be more? He’s not even worried about our safety. This whole thing smells to high heaven.