No, obviously they did, somehow, study us closely before ever Fernandez-Davila left Earth. Can they since have lost interest in us?”
“They may have gone elsewhere,” Rueda said. “Remember, nobody, including the Betans, nobody has seen a ship of theirs.”
“Maybe they keep their ships invisible. Maybe they don’t need ships. It does not make sense they would abandon those T machines-think of the investment Side 98
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of energy and resources-or, I’m certain, that they would abandon us. I can easily imagine they keep out of our sight. We could be overcome by their presence, crushed. But damn it, they must be benign. They must care.”
“This is a big galaxy. Apparently millions of intelligent races, or billions. Could they spare the time?”
“If they can build T machines around-how many suns?-they can follow what happens on the planets.”
“Like God? `His eye is on the sparrow.”
“Oh, the Others hardly have infinite powers. We might not be able to tell the difference, though.”
Rueda turned grim. “They’re not doing much in the way of helping us, aboard this ship, are they?”
“They never passed any miracles for individual benefit that I heard of,”
Weisenberg admitted. “I’ve tried and tried and failed and failed to guess what their relationship is to us, how their concern expresses itself. I’m only convinced to the marrow that they do care-that the Voice didn’t lie when it said they love us.”
It was time to prepare yet another meal. Caitlin entered the common room on her way to the gallery, and stopped short.
The alien. . . the Betan. . . Fidelio stood, or sat, or squatted, or poised before one of the big viewscreens, staring out. Interior lighting dimmed the sky for her eyes, but she saw the Milky Way stream past his head. He was alone.
“Oh,” she blurted. “Good day to you.”
Though he didn’t glance around, he answered in a hoarseness that whistled, “Buenos dias, señora Muiryan.”
Caitlin went to Spanish. “Do you know me, then, already, not even looking?”
“My race has ears more keen than yours.” Without practice, a gifted hearing was necessary to follow most of what Fidelio said. But he spoke fluently and grammatically. It was just that nature had never quite meant him to utter sounds of this kind. As if realizing he might have been too curt, he went on:
“Each individual has a distinct odor, too. This is something else you are not evolved to notice. However, your eyesight in air is much better at long range than mine, and I can only helplessly admire your tactile sensitivity.” He turned, now, in a single fluid motion-light gleamed along his fur-to confront her.
She strode across the deck until she stood before him. “I like your smell,” she said. “It brings me back to my homeland, and me a child at play where the sea made the shingle grind together like millstones. . . but it’s different enough, too, that I am also a child at dream on the same shore, seeing fairyland in the clouds.
Pardon. You could not understand that.”
“Perhaps I could. My folk too have myths and phantoms, which are strongest in the young.”
She laid hands across his webbed and clawed paws, because his own hands were further back, gripped their knobbliness, and said gladly: “I was sure of it. But I didn’t know you would be so learned about us. To recognize a word likèfairyland’!”
“My work has been with other sapient species. That aids me in guessing what might matter to yours.” The altogether blue gaze grew intent upon her. “I own to being surprised at your immediate comprehension of me. My accent seemed much too thick for everyone who is not off Emissary.”
Caitlin disengaged and shrugged. “Well, I collect songs in several languages.”
The big brown form reared up, the whiskers quivered. “Do you mean that you sing, yourself? And not formal music, such as the expedition’s people played for me, but an ordinary kind?”
“Why, did they never sing?”
“Yes, once in a while, but-” Fidelio hesitated. “I remarked that my race has comparatively discriminating ears.”
Caitlin grinned. “I know what you are trying to be tactful about. Well, if nonetheless you got interested in our music, from recording-I’d never call myself an outstanding performer, but-“