He was afraid to ask the question.
"We're on a vacation," Veena said. "We've only been here for one generation. We were due to return almost thirty years ago, but we found your colony."
"Did you—"
"Isolation," she murmured. "The ghetto. They're sick," she said. "Infected with the culture plague. We couldn't leave them and we couldn't help them." Her gaze was very steady. "Until you came."
It came to him. Man, clutching at the knees of Gods, envying, striving futilely, finally hating.
Only Man can help Man.
"It's not fair," Saxon breathed. He took Veena by the shoulders, made her look at him. "I'm happy here. You and Lang—Merl—I'm just beginning to learn! I'd hoped that in a few years—"
"We are not human," Veena said gently. "And our life span is four hundred of your years."
For the first time, he noticed the faint malformation of her ears, the subtle differences in facial bone structure. He glanced past her, saw Lang and Merl waiting in the doorway.
"It will mean months of study," she said. "You have so much to unlearn, to understand. They may reject you, sacrifice you. That will not matter. What does matter is your impact on their culture, what it will mean a thousand generations hence."