The Visitor was silent for many minutes, and his answer, when he spoke, was a faint whisper, filled with the anguish of seven thousand years. “Not one survived. Not one. They were all dead, most of them, long before the ship touched ground, in spite of everything I could do. I was as gentle as I could be, but we touched a hundred g a couple of times on on the way down. Flesh and blood just weren’t made to take shocks like that. I did all I could.”
“You were the pilot, then? You landed the ship?” asked Garth.
“I landed the ship,” said The Visitor.
“If I may ask, my Lord, how did you manage to survive when all the others died?”
“It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times, sitting here on this mountaintop these seven thousands of your years. I was just enough tougher, that’s all. Built to take it, you might say, and I had a job to do. But I was badly hurt in the landing. Mighty badly hurt.”
“You were always in a wheelchair, then? Even before—”
“Even before I got so old?” Thin parchment-white hands lifted slowly to rub a thin parchment-white face. “Things were always pretty much as you see them now. I looked about the same to your ancestors as I do to you. Your ancestors didn’t think anybody could be smart unless they were old. Of course, that’s all changed now.” He paused and nodded twice. “Oh, I’ve managed to fix myself up a good deal; I’m not in nearly as bad shape as I was at first, but that’s all inside. I’m in pretty good condition now, for having been stuck here seven thousand years.” The cackling laugh sounded briefly in the small room.
“Could you tell me how it all happened?” asked Garth curiously.
“Be glad to. It’s a pleasure to have a human to shoot the bull with. Sit down and make yourself comfortable and have a bite to eat.”