The man in the middle of the uniformed trio spoke; the obvious leader.
"This is the—the Colony of Artists, Planet of Ste. Catherine?" The heavy sound of his voice seemed to balk at the words ever so slightly. "You are their leader?"
"I am Angelo, Dean of Masters here," Angelo replied. "I do not lead, but guide, instead. I am at your service, gentlemen of Earth."
"You seem certain of where we are from."
"But of course—do I not immediately recognize and speak your tongue?"
"You would, of course," the leader said, and Angelo did not miss the hint of grudging acknowledgement in his voice as he said it. In face he was little different than the other two, although perhaps a year or two older. But for all practical purposes they were the same—the high foreheads, the too-closely-spaced blue eyes, the sharp, disciplined features, the lack of any genuine character at all. They were as much of the same bolt of cloth as the uniforms they wore.
"Of course," Angelo smiled. "Our memories here on Ste. Catherine are fortunately long, and our libraries are well-filled—and well-used! And of course we have been expecting you."
"Expecting us?"
"Naturally," and again Angelo smiled. "It is a philosophical truth after all—Man is a social creature by nature, and as such, must continually seek the company of his own kind. And of course," and there was the hint of a repressed glitter in the old man's eyes, "the people of Earth have always known, and have—have never forgotten where we of Ste. Catherine were to be found."
The leader reddened and seemed on the point of explosive speech, and the muscles of his jaw hardened as he controlled his impulse. Angelo waited.