Jorun smiled and shook his head. "No, I'll wait for you if you want to
go."
* * * * *
She nodded and ran off down the beach, sheltering behind a dune to put
on a bathing-suit. The Terrans had a nudity taboo, in spite of the mild
interglacial climate; typical primitive irrationality. Jorun lay back,
folding his arms behind his head, and looked up at the darkening sky.
The evening star twinkled forth, low and white on the dusk-blue horizon.
Venus--or was it Mercury? He wasn't sure. He wished he knew more about
the early history of the Solar System, the first men to ride their
thunderous rockets out to die on unknown hell-worlds--the first clumsy
steps toward the stars. He could look it up in the archives of Corazuno,
but he knew he never would. Too much else to do, too much to remember.
Probably less than one percent of mankind's throngs even knew where
Earth was, today--though, for a while, it had been quite a
tourist-center. But that was perhaps thirty thousand years ago.
_Because this world, out of all the billions, has certain physical
characteristics_, he thought, _my race has made them into standards. Our
basic units of length and time and acceleration, our comparisons by
which we classify the swarming planets of the Galaxy, they all go back
ultimately to Earth. We bear that unspoken memorial to our birthplace
within our whole civilization, and will bear it forever. But has she
given us more than that? Are our own selves, bodies and minds and
dreams, are they also the children of Earth?_
Now he was thinking like Kormt, stubborn old Kormt who clung with such a
blind strength to this land simply because it was his. When you
considered all the races of this wander-footed species--how many of them
there were, how many kinds of man between the stars! And yet they all
walked upright; they all had two eyes and a nose between and a mouth
below; they were all cells of that great and ancient culture which had
begun here, eons past, with the first hairy half-man who kindled a fire
against night. If Earth had not had darkness and cold and prowling
beasts, oxygen and cellulose and flint, that culture might never have
gestated.
_I'm getting unlogical. Too tired, nerves worn too thin, psychosomatic
control slipping. Now Earth is becoming some obscure mother-symbol for
me._
_Or has she always been one, for the whole race of us?_
A seagull cried harshly overhead and soared from view.
The sunset was smoldering away and dusk rose like fog out of the ground.
Julith came running back to him, her face indistinct in the gloom. She
was breathing hard, and he couldn't tell if the catch in her voice was
laughter or weeping.
"I'd better be getting home," she said.
3
They flew slowly back. The town was a yellow twinkle of lights, warmth
gleaming from windows across many empty kilometers. Jorun set the girl
down outside her home.
"Thank you, good sir," she said, curtseying. "Won't you come in to
dinner?"
"Well--"
The door opened, etching the girl black against the ruddiness inside.
Jorun's luminous tunic made him like a torch in the dark. "Why, it's the
star-man," said a woman's voice.
"I took your daughter for a swim," he explained. "I hope you don't
mind."
"And if we did, what would it matter?" grumbled a bass tone. Jorun
recognized Kormt; the old man must have come as a guest from his farm on
the outskirts. "What could we do about it?"
"Now, Granther, that's no way to talk to the gentleman," said the woman.
"He's been very kind. Won't you come eat with us, good sir?"
Jorun refused twice, in case they were only being polite, then accepted
gladly enough. He was tired of cookery at the inn where he and Zarek
boarded. "Thank you."
He entered, ducking under the low door. A single long, smoky-raftered
room was kitchen, diningroom, and parlor; doors led off to the sleeping
quarters. It was furnished with a clumsy elegance, skin rugs, oak
wainscoting, carved pillars, glowing ornaments of hammered copper. A
radium clock, which must be incredibly old, stood on the stone mantel,
above a snapping fire; a chemical-powered gun, obviously of local
manufacture, hung over it. Julith's parents, a plain, quiet peasant
couple, conducted him to the end of the wooden table, while half a dozen
children watched him with large eyes. The younger children were the only
Terrans who seemed to find this removal an adventure.
The meal was good and plentiful: meat, vegetables, bread, beer, milk,
ice cream, coffee, all of it from the farms hereabouts. There wasn't
much trade between the few thousand communities of Earth; they were
practically self-sufficient. The company ate in silence, as was the
custom here. When they were finished, Jorun wanted to go, but it would
have been rude to leave immediately. He went over to a chair by the
fireplace, across from the one in which Kormt sprawled.
The old man took out a big-bowled pipe and began stuffing it. Shadows
wove across his seamed brown face, his eyes were a gleam out of
darkness. "I'll go down to City Hall with you soon," he said; "I imagine
that's where the work is going on."
"Yes," said Jorun, "I can relieve Zarek at it. I'd appreciate it if you
did come, good sir. Your influence is very steadying on these people."
"It should be," said Kormt. "I've been their Speaker for almost a
hundred years. And my father Gerlaug was before me, and his father Kormt
was before him." He took a brand from the fire and held it over his
pipe, puffing hard, looking up at Jorun through tangled brows. "Who was
your great-grandfather?"
"Why--I don't know. I imagine he's still alive somewhere, but--"
"I thought so. No marriage. No family. No home. No tradition." Kormt
shook, his massive head, slowly, "I pity you Galactics!"
"Now please, good sir--" Damn it all, the old clodhopper could get as
irritating as a faulty computer. "We have records that go back to before
man left this planet. Records of everything. It is you who have
forgotten."