The Timeless Ones

It was a peaceful world, a green world, where bright blossoms swayed beneath two golden suns. Why did the visitors from Earth sit in their rocket-ship—terrified?
There will be a great many changes, Ned, Cynthia Jackson said. She stared out the viewport at the little green world which the contact rocket Star Mist was swiftly approaching on warp-drive.
Her husband co-pilot nodded, remembering Clifton and Helen Sweeney, and the Sweeney youngsters. Remembering with a smile Tommy Sweeney's kite-flying antics, his freckles and mischievous eyes—a tow-headed kid of ten with an Irish sense of humor, sturdily planted in a field of alien corn five thousand light years from Earth.
Sowing and reaping and bringing in the sheaves, in the blue light of a great double sun, his dreams as vibrant with promise as the interstellar warp-drive which, a century ago, had brought the first prospect ship from Earth to the stars.
He'd be a man grown now, as sturdy as his dad. You could almost take that for granted. And his sister would be a willowy girl with clear blue eyes, and she'd come out of a white plastic cottage with the buoyancy of twenty summers in her carriage and smile.
They'd be farmers still. You couldn't change the Sweeneys in a million years, couldn't wean them away from the good earth.
It was funny, but he couldn't even visualize the Sweeneys without thinking of a little sleepy town, the kind of town he'd left himself as a kid to strike out across the great curve of the universe. Dry dust of Kansas and the Dakotas that would still be blowing after a thousand years!
They've had time to build a town, Ned! Cynthia said. A really fine town with broad streets and modern, dust-proof buildings!
Ned Jackson awoke from his reverie with a wry start. He nodded again, remembering the many other colonists and the equipment which had been shipped to the little green world across the years. Plastic materials to build houses and schools and roadways, educational materials to build eager young minds.