Jack McDevitt - SEEKER

All in all, it was a magnificent time.

A debate started over whether it would be prudent to pay our groundside cousins a visit. “They’re an alien culture,” one of Brankov’s specialists argued. “Doesn’t matter that they’re human. We should let them be, to develop as they wish. They should be let alone.”

I wasn’t really invited to comment, but I did anyhow. I pointed out that I didn’t know anything about impeding development, but going down to say hello to people who’d have no clue who we were or what we wanted, could be dangerous. “We might get a missile up our rear end,” I said. “They’ve been alone a long time. Strangers dropping out of the sky might make them nervous.”

It was Alex who made the decisive observation: “They’re not supposed to be out here.

Leave them here, and they’ll remain isolated. They can’t see any other worlds. They probably do not know where they came from. Probably think they’re native to Balfour.

Let them be, and they’re stuck here.”

There was a tall, angular woman who looked as if she worked out a lot. She was an archeologist, whose name I’ve forgotten, determined that we would go down. And that she would accompany the effort. What were we afraid of? For God’s sake, all you had to do, she said, was look at the images. Kids in parks, people walking the streets.

These were clearly not barbarians.

I wondered if the various bloodthirsty governments down the ages had made it a point to keep everyone out of the parks and off the streets, but I let it ride.

She succeeded in making all the males feel as if they were cowardly, so they decided that sure, it was their clear duty to make our presence known. We’d take our chances, what the hell.

Even Alex, who’s usually shrewder than that, bought in to direct contact.

So we organized a mission. Brankov was literally drooling at the prospect of descending onto a capital lawn somewhere, getting out, and saying hello. The female archeologist talked as if there’d be a band and a cheering crowd.

The lander could accommodate seven, plus a pilot. Alex, of course, automatically could claim a seat. Did I wish to go?

I preferred to hear what they were talking about on the surface before I got into anything. I had this image of savages rushing Captain Cook. “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll wait here. Let me know how it turns out.”

Shara said she’d be happy to take my place.

Brankov and four other archeologists, including the female, would fill out the mission.

They were anxious to get started. There was even some talk of not waiting for the translation capability. But Alex took a stand on that. Let’s hear what they’re saying before we do anything rash, he insisted.

We estimated a population of about 20 million. The inhabitants didn’t have an extensive land surface at their disposal, of course. The night side of the planet was too cold, the side facing the dwarf, too hot. That wasn’t to say no one could live out there.

But it took a pioneer.

We loaded the lander with supplies and settled back to wait for the AI.

I know this is inconsistent, but I was annoyed that they’d leave me behind. I’d expected Alex to put up an argument when I backed off. If he had, maybe I’d have caved. But I’d have liked to see the effort.

While they waited for the AI to get a handle on the language- “I don’t have translation software,” he’d explained, “so I have to improvise” -I went back to the Lotus, tied Kalu into the yacht’s base system, and said hello. He thanked me for the rescue and, at my request, produced Harry.

Harry wore an all-weather jacket and looked resigned. “I’ve got good news,” I told him.

Something very much like suspicion crept into his eyes. “What?” he asked.

“They’re here,” I said. “The colony survived.”

The relays from the Gonzalez ’s telescopes were flickering across the monitor. Kids.

Boats. Farms. Aircraft. Cities. Roadways.

“I’ve prayed for this, but did not dare hope.” I wondered if the prayers of an avatar counted for anything. “I would not have believed it possible.”

I described how they’d done it, and he nodded as if he’d known all the time they’d survive.

“Do they know who they are? Where they came from?”

“We don’t know yet. That may be expecting too much.”

“Okay. I don’t suppose you know anything about Samantha and the boys?”

“No,” I said. “Harry, it’s been so long.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe there’ll be a record somewhere.”

Alex called from the Gonzalez. “We’ve got the translator,” he said. “We’re going down.”

“Be careful,” I told him. “Tell them I said hello.”

I crossed back to the other ship because I didn’t want to be alone while it was happening. I got there a few minutes before launch and just in time to hear the AI stop the proceedings dead in their tracks.

“We are receiving a transmission from the ground,” he said. “It is directed at us and addressed to ‘Unidentified Vehicle.’ ”

“From whom?” asked Alex, who was struggling into a pressure suit.

“Do you wish me to ask?” said the AI.

Brankov and Alex looked at each other, and simultaneous grins appeared. “Put him through,” said Brankov.

It was a woman. Gray hair, stern features, intense green eyes. She stood beside a cabinet with glass doors. The cabinet was filled with plates and goblets. She looked across the short space of the common room at Brankov and then at two or three of the others. She finally settled on Brankov. She asked a question in an unfamiliar language, and the AI, translating in a female voice, said, “Who are you?”

Brankov signaled for Alex to reply. He took a deep breath. “My name is Alex Benedict,” he said.

“No. I mean, who are you?”

“I’m sorry,” said the AI. “I do not think I’m getting the translation quite right.”

Alex laughed. It was okay. He kept his eyes on the woman. “We’ve come looking for you,” he said. “It’s a long story.”

Harry’s colonials had no idea who they were. The world on which they lived was simply The World. There was no other. The great migration across the stars had been lost, but the episode of the brown dwarf and their own descent onto Balfour was dimly remembered as part of a sacred text. The ancient writings maintained they had been brought into the world by a company of divine beings, across a shining bridge.

That an earlier attempt had failed when the recipients proved ungrateful and proud.

And that the divinities would return one day to lead a select few onward to paradise.

Only a few still believed any of that. Margolian science, thousands of years ago, discovered there were two mutually exclusive biosystems in the world, one embracing humans, a wide variety of edible fruits and vegetables, and certain animals and fish.

Everything else was of a different order altogether. Food from one system did not nourish creatures from the other, nor could diseases generally strike across the boundary. Biologists explained it by concluding life had gotten started twice. But a few true believers maintained that the dual stream of life, as it was known, showed the original second-creation story to be valid.

Alex had told the woman at the other end of the comm link the entire story. She’d listened, gone pale and looked skeptical by turns. She’d brought in someone else, a tall, glowering man who behaved as if we were trying to push real estate, and Alex had told the story again.

And still again, to an even taller man in a blue robe.

Emil-we were by then on first-name terms-took over, and talked to someone else, short, dumpy, red-haired, dressed in white. The offices kept getting bigger, so we knew we were moving up the chain.