A sullenness came over Gven's face, and he withdrew from us again, turning back to the panels. I knew he was with Maria Dolores. Though I was uneasy over his ignorance, I could not help feeling relieved that I had not been forced to enlighten him.
My anxiety proved to be well-founded. It was only a few weeks later that we reaped the results of our long-cultivated conspiracy of silence against the poet-priest. We were deeply engrossed in our work at the computing tables when our nerves were shattered by a cry of anguish from the mind of Gven. In a moment we were standing around him, avoiding each other's eyes and scarcely daring to look at the man shuddering before us, his face in his hands.
"It is done." Gven cast his anger at us like a stone. "It is as though she had been killed. Why couldn't you tell me? You, Noven, I asked you. Why couldn't you have spared me this?"
The men looked uneasily at me and back at Gven. Shaken, they drifted away, back to their work, still ashamed to meet each other's eyes. Gven sat there, grinding his fist into his palm, staring straight ahead.
He has been gone for some time now. At his request, a long-ship stopped for him on its homeward cruise. I have not tried to reach another subject, nor have any of the others. At least, if they have, they do not speak of it. We are reluctant to attempt any communion with these creatures whose alien nature has been so strikingly demonstrated to us. The game of Observation itself has become less a game, and we go about our work with a vague sense of unrest, as though the descent of catastrophe upon us were imminent.
Gven gave us one last gift before he left. He sang us a song that made us want to bend our heads to the ground in shame. If his songs are bitter now, and if there is no innocence in them, one needs not look far to find the reason.