The Little People did not seem to want to kick them out but the Little People, in their own way, were as demoralizing to men as were the gods of the Jockaira. One at a time they might be morons – but taken as groups each rapport group was a genius that threw the best minds that men could offer into the shade. Even Andy. Human beings could not hope to compete with that type of organization any more than a backroom shop could compete with an automated cybernated factory. Yet to form any such group identities, even if they could which he doubted, would be, Lazarus felt very sure, to give up whatever it was that made them men.
He admitted that he was prejudiced in favor of men. He was a man.
The uncounted days slid past while he argued with himself over the things that bothered him-problems that had made sad the soul of his breed since the first apeman had risen to self-awareness, questions never solved by full belly nor fine machinery. And the endless quiet days did no more to give him final answers than did all the soul searchings of his ancestors. Why? What shall it profit a man? No answer came back -save one: a firm unreasoned conviction that he was not intended for, or not ready for, this timeless snug harbor of ease.
His troubled reveries were interrupted by the appearance of one of the Little People. “. . . greetings, old friend your wife King wishes you to return to your home . . . he has need of your advice . . .”
“What’s the trouble?” Lazarus demanded.
But the little creature either could or would not tell him. Lazarus gave his belt a hitch and headed south. “. . . there is no need to go slowly . . .” a thought came after him.
Lazarus let himself be led to a clearing beyond a clump of trees. There he found an egg-shaped object about six feet long, featureless except for a door in the side. The native went in through the door, Lazarus squeezed his larger bulk in after him; the door closed.
It opened almost at once and Lazarus saw that they were on the beach just below the human settlement. He had to admit that it was a good trick.
Lazarus hurried to the ship’s boat parked on the beach in which Captain King shared with Barstow a semblance of community headquarters. “You sent for me, Skipper. What’s up?”
King’s austere face was grave. “It’s about Mary Sperling.”
Lazarus felt a sudden cold tug at his heart. “Dead?”
“No. Not exactly. She’s gone over to the Little People. ‘Married’ into one of their groups.”
“What? But that’s impossible!”
Lazarus was wrong. There was no faint possibility of interbreeding between Earthmen and natives but there was no barrier, if sympathy existed, to a human merging into one of their rapport groups, drowning his personality in the ego of the many.
Mary Sperling, moved by conviction of her own impending death, saw in the deathless group egos a way out. Faced with the eternal problem of life and death, she had escaped the problem by choosing neither . . . selflessness. She had found a group willing to receive her, she had crossed over.
“It raises a lot of new problems,” concluded King. “Slayton and Zaccur and I all felt that you had better be here.”
“Yes, yes, sure-but where is Mary?” Lazarus demanded and then ran out of the room without waiting for an answer. He charged through the settlement ignoring both greetings and attempts to stop him. A short distance oustide the camp he ran across a native He skidded to a stop. “Where is Mary Sperling?”
“. . . I am Mary Sperling . .
“For the love of- You can’t be.”
“I am Mary Sperling and Mary Sperling is myself do you not know me, Lazarus? . . . I know you.
Lazarus waved his hands. “No! I want to see Mary Sperling who looks like an Earthman-Iike me!”
The native hesitated.”. . . follow me, then . . .
Lazarus found her a long way from the camp; it was obvious that she had been avoiding the other colonists. “Mary!”