He started to speak in English, caught himself, and switched to her language. “Those vessels – they have brought my people from across the space between the stars. I came to this world in just such a vessel, a spaceroller, you might say. My ship crashed, and I was forced to descend upon this – your – world. Then, I heard that another ship had landed near Estorya and that King Raussmig had put the crew in prison and was going to sacrifice them during the Festival of the Sun’s Eye. I had little time to get to Estorya before that happened, so I talked Miran into taking me. That was why I left you, that…”
He trailed off because he did not understand the expression upon her face. It was not the great hurt he’d expected, nor the wild fury he thought might result from his explanation. If anything, she looked pitying.
“Why, Alan, whatever are you talking about?”
He pointed at the line of spaceships.
“They’re from Terra, my home planet.”
“I don’t understand what you mean by your home planet,” she replied still pityingly. “But those are not spaceships. Those are the towers built by the Estoryans a thousand years ago.”
“Wha-what do you mean?”
Stunned, he looked at them again. If those weren’t star-ships he’d eat the yacht’s canvas. Yes, and the wheels, too.
Under the swift wind, the ‘roller swept closer and closer while he stood behind Amra and thought that he’d break into little pieces if his tension didn’t find some release.
Finally it did find an outlet. Tears welled in his eyes, and he choked. His breast seemed as if it would swell up and burst.
How cleverly the ancient builders had fashioned those towers! The landing struts, the big fins, the long sweeping lines ending in the pointed nose, all must have been built with a spaceship as a model. There was no escaping such a conclusion; coincidence couldn’t explain it.
Amra said, “Don’t cry, Alan. Your people will think you weak. Captains don’t weep.”
“This captain does,” he replied, and he turned and walked the length of the yacht to the stern and leaned over the taffrail where no one could see him as he shook with sobs.
Presently he felt a hand upon his.
“Alan,” she said gently. “Tell me the truth. If those had been ships on which you could leave this world and travel into the skies, would you have taken me along? Were you still thinking that I was not – not good enough for you?”
“Let’s not talk about it now,” he said. “I can’t. Besides, there are too many people listening. Later, when everybody’s asleep.”
“All right, Alan.”
She released his hand and left him alone, knowing that that was what he wanted. Mentally, he thanked her for it, because he knew what it was costing her to exercise restraint. At any other time, in a like situation, she would have thrown something at him.
After he had calmed down somewhat he returned to the helm and took over from Miran. From then on he was too busy to think much about his disappointment. He had to report to the port officer and tell his story, which took hours, for the officer called in the others to hear his amazing tale. And they questioned Miran and Amra. Green anxiously listened to the merchant’s account, fearful that the fellow would disclose his suspicions that Green was not what he claimed to be. If Miran had any such intentions, however, he was saving them for their arrival in Estorya itself.
The officers all agreed that they had heard many wonderful stories from sailors but never anything to match this. They insisted upon giving a banquet for Miran and Green. The result was that Green got a much-needed and desired bath, hair cut and shave. But he also had to endure a long feast in which he had to stuff himself to keep from offending his hosts and also was forced to enter a drinking contest with some of the younger blades of the post. His Vigilante could handle enormous amounts of food and alcohol, so that Green appeared to the soldiers to be something of a superman. At midnight the last officer had dropped his head upon the table, dead drunk, and Green was able to get up and go to his yacht.