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They rounded the clump of drooping lavender trees and Barnhart saw the eight men laying on the ground in the transparent casings. Not men, but quronos, he corrected himself; in a molded clear membrane of some sort.

“They are in status,” the Leader explained, answering the captain’s unasked question.

“This is how you keep your population at one hundred,” Barnhart thought aloud, removing his glasses to rest his eyes and to get a better look at the bodies. Despite regulations he could still see better without his spectacles.

“It is how you arranged it, Master. But as you know we are now ninety and one.”

The captain put his glasses back on. “I’ll test you. Why are you now ninety and one?”

“Naturally,” the Leader said emotionlessly, “you required a whole shelter unit to yourself. We had to dispose of the ten who previously had the unit.”

Barnhart swallowed. “Couldn’t you think of anything less drastic? Next time just build a new unit.”

“But master,” the alien protested, “it takes a great deal of work to construct our units. Our lumber escapes so badly no matter how often we beat it into submission. Our work capacity is limited, as you are aware. Is it really desirable to overwork us so much?”