A crudely-accented voice asked in uneven tempo: "What is your name, and what is your Time Era?"
Randall didn't answer. He hadn't even heard. He was staring with horrified fascination at the hands of the monster at the keyboard. Hands which each had four tapering fingers and a thumb, instead of two opposing claws; hands the delicate hue of old ivory, instead of the brownish black of the other Kralons' chitinous limbs!
"What is your name, and your Time Era?"
"Randall," he answered, his voice thin and colorless in the huge room. "Willard Randall. And I'm from the twenty-first Century, A.D."
The mandibles of the huge creatures clacked spasmodically for a moment, then the Kralon at the instrument, which Randall had recognized as a sort of Voder, ran those weird, incongruous fingers over the keyboard, and the instrument spoke again.
"We're sorry," it said. "We had hoped to draw from the more distant future, when more intelligence could be expected."
"Sorry," said Randall in his flat voice. "Awfully sorry to disappoint you."
The creature at the instrument looked at him, and Randall wondered whimsically whether it had recognized the sarcasm.
Then the voice continued, "However, there is the satis—satis—" Even this fantastic Voder could not cope with the hissing sibilance of an "F," so the creature finally substituted: "consolation that our Time Net is working so well. In the end, the law of averages will bring us what we want."
"May I ask," Randall said, "just what it is you want from us? Why you were seining the stream of Time, dragging us back into your own age?"