The helmet fell in place with a loud clang of steel on steel.
He was unconscious only five minutes, but, as consciousness flowed back, he felt his head hammer with sharp pains, and lights danced before his eyes. He was afraid he was going to be sick inside the space suit.
It was fifteen minutes before he was recovered enough to listen to what they had to tell him.
An Earth doctor, the pilot ship's surgeon, made it very plain.
"... Twenty-one generations is a long time," the doctor had told him, "for an animal that can adapt itself as easily as man...."
Johnny Nine could complete the rest of it: Sometime, long ago, perhaps as early as the Second Generation, perhaps at the time of the Great Sickness, the terrarium had been thrown out of balance. And, as the balance continued to shift, man continued to adapt.
Until—
He could hear them, around him, talking quietly.
"We haven't told yur Ship, yet. We thought you'd better do that."