It was not like they were really people, but Peter was still drawn to them. Hadn’t he been thinking about killing and eating the heron-things? He had not thought of the manta as food. But he ate cows, and sheep, and pigs — which were sort of cute. Smelly but cute. And bacon was too good. His mouth watered at the thought of a BLT sandwich.

See. You’re a carnivore yourself. That doesn’t make them bad people. Does it?

His manta had helped with catching the fish, and it did seem to jump for sheer joy. It was sort of friendly. Wasn’t it?

No. And I need to be careful. These aliens might think of me as food.

He shook his head at the thought of cannibals. That was crazy. No such thing as real cannibals these days. But in this weird place, where birds had fingers, the manta rays were hairy, and who knew what else? He could take no chances.

Peter kept his head low and still, then looked over the edge of the bluff. Only his eyes moved.

The alien-people-things finished cutting up the three mantas on the sand. Several groups washed the meat in the stream. Others brought leaves from the forest to wrap the meat, or tended a fire that burned on the forest edge. Now Peter could smell…

‘Barbecue.’

With fire he could cook his fish, and clams, and keep animals away. Some of that fire would be useful to take back to camp. The clams he had gathered now baked in the sun. Flies flew amongst them, and a lizard watched from under a bush — its tongue flicked. He waved them off, gathered the clams up in his shirt again, and moved into the forest shade. Storm water, still in an old coconut shell under the trees, dampened his shirt-bag. He hung it with the clams on a branch.

Fire. The thought of proper cooked clams that opened themselves when ready made him hungrier than ever.

The slope fell steeply off. Peter found a trail down through the bushes and broken rocks. What animal made the track — person, or beast? All the while he listened for sounds from the people on the beach.

What were they? This might be another planet, and he was the alien. The strange animals and people seemed to point towards that idea. Could he have slipped through a space warp wormhole whatsit to end up — somewhere? Was there an alternative? Even that was…

‘Crazy daisy.’

He froze. A chittering cry carried on the breeze from the beach. The brightness of the sand shone through the trees and bushes. An answering call, then a whole chorus. The complex noise was like the cries of a hundred magpies, crows, bellbirds, and geese — all at once.

They did sound like birds he realized. And that would make sense with their backward legs — but lots of mammals walked on their toes too — with their heels high off the ground like backwards knees. But the language they used was definitely like bird calls.

He crept closer and listened intently for any change in the chitter-chatter noise. Wind and high seas had swept the sand under the prickly-cactus-bushes clear of debris, so he crawled under one with low branches. Through the shadows he watched the barbecue on the beach.

The fire was not as close to the forest as he had thought. Fifteen or twenty bird-people… squatted or perched on the ground around it. They ate with their hands, tearing at the meat, or biting off from a large chunk, just like they were eating fried chicken.

Hmmm. I guess these bird-people would think eating KFC pretty barbaric. Like eating their relatives.

Their fur he saw now looked more like fine feathers. But also a lot like fur. It shaded into larger true feathers in places. Especially the fan like tail. Even when the bird-people were not moving their bodies, their tails flicked constantly. Under the tail bright white down flashed. For a moment he wondered if they were talking with their butts.

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He almost gave himself away then. He had to bite down on his sleeve to prevent releasing a guffaw of laughter.

Under control again he saw there were two groups. One settled away from the barbecue. These bird-people were more easily examined as they faces were not hidden by manta meat and hands.

Why aren’t you eating too?

These bird-people had large owl-like eyes in a hooded depression in their face. Some had gold or silver filigree surrounding their eye-hoods, others blue-black skin. There was a sort of flicker of color from around their eyes, as if the light had caught a rainbow. The soft furred faces were flat, with small snouts wider but no more prominent than a large human nose, but part of the face. A chinless mouth quirked in a permanent smile. One of them yawned in a very human manner, and he saw a ridge of white-blue beak top and bottom in the mouth, with smaller teeth at the back. Almost like someone had replaced the first four teeth with a single large tooth or plate. The mouth was sort of like a beak, with lips.

‘Definitely birds… but they’re not that either. Birds have wings. These guys have… wow. Two thumbs.’

The people scratched themselves, and gestured with two very mobile hands. Each with three fingers and two thumbs.

Okay that’s kinda unique, he thought

Then he realized. These people were not birds.’

Holy holy… If birds are dinosaurs with wings. Birds without wings must be dinosaurs.

He closed his eyes. There was too much to take in. Could dinosaurs have evolved into intelligent aliens… people? The world spun as he tried to get to grips with the implications.

The barbecue smell had blown away on the wind and he realized that was something important. If he was now upwind of the group of people-saurs… manisaurs…they might smell him. He lifted his head and scanned again, but there had been no change. The group by the fire was still eating.

The other group… seemed dejected somehow. One raised its leg and Peter saw that it was roped together with its neighbor. One large manisaur stood and threw hunks of manta meat to the huddled group. The pieces landed on the sand, but the group of captives ignored the meat. A small burble of talk rose amongst them, but a hiss from the leader shut them up.

He found it fascinating. Better than a nature show on TV.

Real aliens. Intelligent aliens.

Except Peter knew now he faced more danger than ever.

These aliens were slavers, or at best jailers. He had not found some nice tribe or family party. He would not get any help here. Instead he had to escape without them noticing him.

He eased away then froze, but too late.

One of the manisaur captives had spotted him. It’s large limpid eyes stared at him intently. A flicker of color flashed and then disappeared. It nudged its neighbor and flicked its tail feathers against the other’s leg to draw attention. It gave a small very humanlike bobbing nod towards Peter.

Somehow the manisaur did not look as startled to see him as he was to see it. But how could even read an alien’s face to know? It might be shitting itself in shock.

It wobbled its head to the side, and blinked in slow-motion. He was struck then how much it moved like a parrot or owl.

He shivered — goosebumps rose on his arms even though in the heat. The feathers on the manisaur’s head had raised too. Its neighbor nudged him with a glance to their captors.

Definitely intelligent — they did not want the guards or slavers to know he was there.

The first one shuffled forward to the extent of its tether and made a series of squawks. There was some back and forth between captive and the alien overseer.

This alien guard had a large yellow chest, with a intricate webbing strapped across their upper body like a halter. Flashes of metal glinted on it, and when it turned its back Peter could see a long knife or short sword sheathed in a scabbard across the back.

The conversation grew heated, Peter guessed, but then the overseer motioned for the captured alien to be released. The captive walked right towards Peter. He shrank back as fear shocked through him.

Would it reveal him to the others? Had he misunderstood the whole situation? Maybe they were not captives? Instead it could be some strange ritual that he had interrupted.

With no way to tell the alienness of the manisaurs struck home stronger than ever.

Closer it walked. The slow movements were tracked by the others. The overseer watched the captive. Like a hawk. Peter knew he could not escape now — any movement would reveal him. And they could surely outrun him.

The manisaur was less than an arm stretch away now. The eyes were not as large as he had first thought. What he had taken for the eye was instead the surrounding depression about the eye hood. This area sparkled with iridescent patterns of color that seemed to shift and move. The manisaur sniffed, the nostril slits flared open and closed. It nodded and cocked its head to one side. The face was covered in soft black leathery skin, and he imagined that, far from being rough with scales, it would feel like velvet. A tracery of gold highlighted parts of the face, between the eye hoods, along the sides of the jaw, and across its brow a complex pattern swirled. The mouth had lips which it parted now as it gave soft chitters as if talking to itself. The wide single tooth at the front of the jaw looked a lot like a beak. But there were real teeth behind. A pink tongue like a human’s moved and flicked as it warbled.

Peter braced himself to be discovered by the manisaur guards at any moment.

He held his breath.