“It has been a lonely time,” he added wistfully.
Garth’s mind tried to absorb all the vastness of that understatement, and failed. He could not begin to comprehend the meaning of seven thousand years of separation from his own kind.
The Visitor’s high-pitched voice continued for several minutes, explaining how Garth’s ancestors of several thousand years before—naked and primitive, barbarous, with almost no culture of their own—had made contact with The Visitor from space, and had been gently lifted over the millennia toward higher and higher levels of civilization.
Garth had trouble keeping his attention on the words. His mind kept reverting to the thought of one badly injured survivor, alone on a spaceship with a thousand corpses, light-years from home and friends, still struggling to stay alive. Struggling so successfully that he had lived on for thousands of years after the disaster that had killed all the others.
At last, after waiting for Garth’s comment, The Visitor cleared his throat querulously. “I asked you if you’d like for me to show you around the ship,” he repeated somewhat testily.
“Oh, yes, my Lord,” said Garth quickly, jumping to his feet. “It’s an honor I’ve never heard of your giving to anyone before.”
“That’s true enough,” answered The Visitor. “But then no one ever asked me about myself before. Now just follow me, stick close, and don’t touch anything.”
The wheelchair rolled slowly toward a blank wall, and an invisible door snicked open just before it arrived.
“Come along,” quavered The Visitor. “Step lively.”