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A rocky start at Stanford.
Pistol at the ready, he moved slowly up the ramp, stopping to listen at the door. All was quiet. He moved warily into the cabin, sweeping his weapon over its contents. The last man sat at the console. The computer provided him data he was oblivious to, warning him that his protective shield was down. His throat gaped open from an extremely clean wound, soaking the front of his coveralls. Walter noted the erection, still rampant in death, coated with dried secretions, projecting incongruously from the open fly. He went to the keyboard. Accessing the security log, the computer calmly said, "NO DATA AVAILABLE, CHECK DRIVE." Looking for expedition data he got the same response. Same with the communications log. Checking the drive for the data disc he found it to be empty. From there, he moved to a sweep of the cabin. Everything seemed to be in its place. In this small place they had to be organized. Equipment was stowed in its racks, the sampling table was bare. That was odd. They'd been here for three days and should have had some samples. He checked the sample bins but they too were empty.
He sat on the table to puzzle this out. Someone had gotten inside the force field, torn apart five people outside, and yet cleanly killed this one man and carefully covered their trail. There had to be something here out of place, something left behind. Inside the closed hover, the smell of the carnage outside was shut out. Walter detected a faint smell of something else. Antiseptic and...perfume! Taking the medical bag from the rack, he took out the small plastic bottle of antiseptic. The seal was broken. Checking the trash receptacle he found only an empty trash bag. Looking back at the table, he noticed something hanging from the corner. On closer inspection, he found a single, meter long, black hair wedged in the crack in the corner. He pulled a zip-lock bag from his pocket and carefully sealed the hair inside.
He went back outside and resealed the hover. Other teams would take care of the remains and he didn't want to be here when they arrived. Soon this site would be a bustle of activity he couldn't afford. One more thing. He went to the tent of the blonde couple and looked around for their belongings. A small bag yielded some feminine articles, but, as he expected, no perfume. Women, on crews such as this, seldom had much use for those vanities.
The Yanomamo guide had had too much of the scene outside and retreated into the forest to loose his Whopper Value Meal. He stood up when Walter exited the hover and waited expectantly, wanting to leave this evil place. Walter waved to him and said, "Let's go. Take me to them." He turned and reactivated the dome.
They reached the barrier entrance to the village at dusk. The guide went ahead to pave the way. It was some time before he returned, motioning Walter to come ahead. Passing through the barrier of brush and dry palm leaves he was met by about a dozen burly native men, arrows fixed in drawn bows. Underfed dogs snarled at him and snapped at his trousers. He stood his ground. After animated conversation between the guide and the men, they finally lowered their bows. The village was obviously on edge and this was culturally a warlike people. The hallucinogenic drug ebene was in evidence by the green snot drizzling from the nostrils of the men.
He was then subjected to a dozen examinations, as each the men had to satisfy himself, before being led to the lean-to where the headman and the shaman waited.
The shaman was using ebene. The headman administered it by blowing the snuff through a long pipe into the shaman's nostril, one in each. The shaman grimaced and slapped the sides of his head before the drug took effect and his eyes glazed over. Long strands of green mucus began to drip from his nostrils. The headman motioned the guests to sit. Walter assumed the posture he had been told was correct, sitting elbow on knee, hand at mouth, staring reflectively at the thatched ceiling.
Walter had carefully briefed the guide on the questions he wanted asked.