"It has gone well," said the Rama voice. "It will go better with time, for their short generations move quickly."
The settlement became a city. The population grew, spread, built more cities, planted more crops. The land flourished.
"Many thousands live," the Rama said, "who would otherwise not have been born. We have repaid our murders."
The spool ended.
Woodthorpe said, "But we're not trying to atone for anything. We...."
"If my house burns down," said Carey, "I do not greatly care whether it was by a stroke of lightning, deliberate arson, or a child playing with matches. The end result is the same."
The third spool began.
A different voice spoke now. Carey wondered if the owner of the first had chosen death himself, or simply lacked the heart to go on with the record. The distilling plant was wearing out and metals for repair were poor and difficult to find. The solar batteries could not be replaced. The stream of water dwindled. Crops died. There was famine and panic, and then the pumps stopped altogether and the cities were stranded like the hulks of ships in dry harbors.
The Rama voice said, "These are the consequences of the one kind act we have ever done. Now these thousands that we called into life must die as their forebears did. The cruel laws of survival that we caused them to forget are all to be learned again. They had suffered once, and mastered it, and were content. Now there is nothing we can do to help. We can only stand and watch."