CHAPTER IVEXTERIOR: Quade’s camp in the Plutonian set. Long shot. Noon.
The creature sat on the ground and looked at them with interest. Quade and Peters, the gaunt, hollow-cheeked cameraman, returned the gaze.
“It’s a frog,” Peters said.
“Frogs don’t sing,” Quade objected.
“They come pretty near it.”
“But—words!” Quade said. “Listen.” He caroled untunefully, “Where the Martian moons ride over—” and completed the first verse.
No, it wasn’t a frog. It looked like one, although it was covered with curly ringlets of silvery hair. Its forelimbs were curiously anthropoid, with tiny little hands at the end. Its face was a frog’s, though its mouth was mobile for all its size. Under its throat a pouch swelled, and as Quade paused the creature clasped its hands, sat up on its hind legs, and s
