ship is. It was old, unreliable. They landed here for repairs. Some of them stayed.”
“And Earthmen have remained here ever since.” Kleenahn mused. His eyes were thoughtful “Accident, Earthman Carlin?”
“It could be so termed, Captain Kleenahn. Providence would be a better word.”
“Why is it that no person other than of Earth is permitted to visit the shrine?”
Carlin remained silent.
“Why is it that no Earthman who has visited the shrine will tell of what he saw?”
Again Carlin gave no answer.
“Earthmen!” Kleenahn gave a gesture which, in a man, would have been a shrug. “Will we ever be able to fully understand you? A homeless race, their own planet destroyed by war, wandering over a thousand worlds. You should have no pride, no ambition, and yet there is something within you which we can never know. The same thing, perhaps, which gave you the stars and yet destroyed your own world. This furious lust for progress, the driving pursuit of knowledge which should have waned by now but which has not.”
“We are an old race,” said Carlin.
“You are children,” corrected the captain. “When you first ventured beyond your system we were there to greet you.”
“You had space travel,” admitted Carlin. “But we improved your ships. You had a stagnant culture. We exploded it into a thriving spate of commerce. You took ten thousand years to lift yourselves from steam to atomic power; we took a few decades. It does not become you or those like you to despise the people of Earth.”
“The fault, I think, lies within yourselves,” said Kleenahn mildly. “You despise yourselves and imagine that you are persecuted. Too many of your race lack pride. Too few remember their accomplishments.”
“That is true.” Carlin glanced again through the port; the figures outside were now very close. “The Custodians approach,” he said. “Have the Pilgrims your permission to leave the ship?”
“Naturally.”
Kleenahn sighed as Carlin went about his business, then rested an appendage on a button to summon the navigator. He felt a strange reluctance to be alone.
*
“They have been gone a long time.” Aarne paced the room. “Are they always as long as this?”
“They have crossed half the galaxy; we should not be impatient.”
“Odd.” Aarne could not contain himself. “Did you see those Custodians?”
“Of course.”
“The way they were dressed?”
“They dress in the way of a fashion five thousand years old.” Kleenahn stared speculatively through the port. “In a sense we have traveled back through time. This place is sacred to Earthmen. They have kept a part of it isolated against change. Their clothes, other things.”
“The shrine?”
“Especially the shrine.”
“Odd,” said Aarne again. “Very odd.” He halted before the port. “Tell me, captain, have you never been tempted to join the Pilgrims?”
“Often, but it would be useless. I am not an Earthman.”
“Some races look much like that of Earth,” hinted the navigator. “It would be interesting to discover just what it is they keep in their shrine.”
“Interesting? Perhaps.” Kleenahn did not look at the other. “And perhaps dangerous as well. Remember, this is the only sacred thing the Earthmen possess.”
“A tiny world, a superstition, a ritual!” Aarne snorted. “The dying remnant of a dying race.”
“You think that?”
“What else? You saw them leave the ship. Did they inspire respect?”
“They cannot inspire what they themselves do not possess,” said Kleenahn. “When they left this ship the Pilgrims respected neither themselves nor their race.”
“And when they return?”
“You will see.”
The captain leaned forward toward the port. Outside the world was deserted. The Custodians and the Pilgrims had passed from sight in a long, straggling line. They had gone — somewhere. They would do — what? They would return — different.
That was all he knew. All he would ever
“And Earthmen have remained here ever since.” Kleenahn mused. His eyes were thoughtful “Accident, Earthman Carlin?”
“It could be so termed, Captain Kleenahn. Providence would be a better word.”
“Why is it that no person other than of Earth is permitted to visit the shrine?”
Carlin remained silent.
“Why is it that no Earthman who has visited the shrine will tell of what he saw?”
Again Carlin gave no answer.
“Earthmen!” Kleenahn gave a gesture which, in a man, would have been a shrug. “Will we ever be able to fully understand you? A homeless race, their own planet destroyed by war, wandering over a thousand worlds. You should have no pride, no ambition, and yet there is something within you which we can never know. The same thing, perhaps, which gave you the stars and yet destroyed your own world. This furious lust for progress, the driving pursuit of knowledge which should have waned by now but which has not.”
“We are an old race,” said Carlin.
“You are children,” corrected the captain. “When you first ventured beyond your system we were there to greet you.”
“You had space travel,” admitted Carlin. “But we improved your ships. You had a stagnant culture. We exploded it into a thriving spate of commerce. You took ten thousand years to lift yourselves from steam to atomic power; we took a few decades. It does not become you or those like you to despise the people of Earth.”
“The fault, I think, lies within yourselves,” said Kleenahn mildly. “You despise yourselves and imagine that you are persecuted. Too many of your race lack pride. Too few remember their accomplishments.”
“That is true.” Carlin glanced again through the port; the figures outside were now very close. “The Custodians approach,” he said. “Have the Pilgrims your permission to leave the ship?”
“Naturally.”
Kleenahn sighed as Carlin went about his business, then rested an appendage on a button to summon the navigator. He felt a strange reluctance to be alone.
*
“They have been gone a long time.” Aarne paced the room. “Are they always as long as this?”
“They have crossed half the galaxy; we should not be impatient.”
“Odd.” Aarne could not contain himself. “Did you see those Custodians?”
“Of course.”
“The way they were dressed?”
“They dress in the way of a fashion five thousand years old.” Kleenahn stared speculatively through the port. “In a sense we have traveled back through time. This place is sacred to Earthmen. They have kept a part of it isolated against change. Their clothes, other things.”
“The shrine?”
“Especially the shrine.”
“Odd,” said Aarne again. “Very odd.” He halted before the port. “Tell me, captain, have you never been tempted to join the Pilgrims?”
“Often, but it would be useless. I am not an Earthman.”
“Some races look much like that of Earth,” hinted the navigator. “It would be interesting to discover just what it is they keep in their shrine.”
“Interesting? Perhaps.” Kleenahn did not look at the other. “And perhaps dangerous as well. Remember, this is the only sacred thing the Earthmen possess.”
“A tiny world, a superstition, a ritual!” Aarne snorted. “The dying remnant of a dying race.”
“You think that?”
“What else? You saw them leave the ship. Did they inspire respect?”
“They cannot inspire what they themselves do not possess,” said Kleenahn. “When they left this ship the Pilgrims respected neither themselves nor their race.”
“And when they return?”
“You will see.”
The captain leaned forward toward the port. Outside the world was deserted. The Custodians and the Pilgrims had passed from sight in a long, straggling line. They had gone — somewhere. They would do — what? They would return — different.
That was all he knew. All he would ever
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