“It will be all right,” said Saturday, reaching to stroke her mother’s face. This was merely reassurance, with only hopeful supposition behind it, and they both knew it.
There was a time, Africa told herself, when she would have resented what was happening now, resented being informed that something needed doing. Now, however, she examined herself for any feelings of coercion and found none. No demand. Simply information. The thing was necessary. The difference now was that she was unable to reject the information or rationalize it away. If one was informed, one knew it was true, and there was no point playing with the idea or talking about it. It simply was, that’s all.
“Take care of China,” Sam begged her, when they arrived at the departure area. “Please, Africa.”
Africa merely nodded, saying yes, she would look out for China. Undoubtedly Sam, too, was being informed that something needed to be done, as Saturday herself had no doubt been informed. Africa hugged her daughter, muttering words of warning and caution which, in the sense of them, were remarkably similar to those the cat Lucky had uttered. Walk softly. Be careful.
Africa didn’t stay to watch them go through the Door. She let them out and drove away, tears flowing down her face. She was not being silly, she told herself. She was just … just missing her daughter, that was all. Inside her, calm and peace were urged upon her, but she fought against being consoled. It was proper to feel this way. Proper to be lonely. Proper and human to grieve.
The consolation withdrew as though considering the matter. Perhaps, it agreed, it was more proper to grieve. Consolation was proper, but grieving, too, had its time and place.
Inside the reception area, Sam, Maire, and Saturday encountered the team of Baidee who had been up upon the escarpment doing the ancient monuments survey, ten of them, counting the techs. Sam greeted Volsa, Shan, and Bombi by name and was introduced to some of the other persons in the party—Dr. Feriganeh and a busy little man named Merthal. The several technicians were busy with their boxes and bundles of esoteric equipment, muttering among themselves.
“Did you find anything exciting?” Sam asked Volsa, relying upon their brief acquaintance in the settlement to excuse his obvious curiosity.
“A rare fungus of some kind,” said Volsa, warming to Sam as she had in the settlement. She turned to smile at Saturday. She had seen the girl before, singing with the choir. “A fungus that grows into long, radially arranged bodies beneath the soil. So far as our botanists can tell, the growths may have been there for centuries. They’re dormant. There have been many meteor strikes on the escarpment. We believe it probable the growths are not native to this world, and the planet lacks something they need for development.”
“Almost a unique find,” said the doctor with enthusiasm. “There are similar growths on two other Belt worlds, similarly dormant. My colleagues will be envious that I have had this opportunity.”
“That’s marvelous,” said Saturday. “All the time we settlers have been here, and you come along and find something completely new!”
Her remark drew Shan’s attention. He turned calculating eyes upon her, recognized that he had seen her before, and said, “I went out for a walk early this morning and saw that while we have been working on the escarpment, the people of CM have built a temple like the one rebuilt in Settlement One. At least, I suppose it is similar. I did not look at it closely. Why was that done, do you suppose?”
Sam responded before Saturday could. “I think it’s because we’re a little starved for history upon Hobbs Land. We have no monuments, no memorials. We’ve adopted this indigenous architectural form as a kind of symbol. Not unlike, perhaps, the ritual dress which your group wears. You bond yourselves together by similar dress. So we bond our various communities together by building in this ancient form. It is Hobbs Landian, like us.”
“You think it will be a persistent symbol then?” Shan asked. “Or a mere fashion?” It was his youth more than his tone that made the question seem arrogant.
“Only time will tell.” Sam shrugged. “When we build a future of our own, perhaps we’ll abandon this relic of the Owlbrit people. Personally, I hope we’ll keep the little temples. We can begin our history with a continuation of the former one.”
“I would have liked something prettier,” said Maire, moved by some impulse she could not identify to argue with Sam. “I wish they had built towers instead of these flattish things.”
“You disagree with your … is it your son?” asked Shan.
“Oh, fairly regularly,” she laughed. “We are not in agreement about a number of things.”
“Tell me,” Shan asked Sam, almost as though he had not been listening. “Do you have a choir at Central Management?”
Sam was caught by surprise. “Not that I know of,” he answered.
Saturday and Maire, who had both helped organize
the choir at CM, kept their mouths shut. Shan had no chance to ask other questions, for Spiggy and Dern Blass came bustling in, bonhomous and full of farewells.
“Came to thank you,” Dern said to the Damzels with a nod to the others of their party, shaking Bombi’s hands between his own, oozing conviviality. “We’ve wanted the survey done for a decade or so now. Good to have it. Will you be making any recommendations?” He looked hard at all three of them. “Any recommendations for preservation or reconstruction?”
Bombi shook his head, responding to the warmth expressed. “We think not at this point,” he said. “There are thousands of village houses, over a thousand temple clusters. Any scholarly work that is
