Jorun sighed. I'd better go to bed, he thought. It's late.
The spaceship was a steely pillar against a low gray sky. Now and then a fine rain would drizzle down, blurring it from sight; then that would end, and the ship's flanks would glisten as if they were polished. Clouds scudded overhead like flying smoke, and the wind was loud in the trees.
The line of Terrans moving slowly into the vessel seemed to go on forever. A couple of the ship's crew flew above them, throwing out a shield against the rain. They shuffled without much talk or expression, pushing carts filled with their little possessions. Jorun stood to one side, watching them go by, one face after another—scored and darkened by the sun of Earth, the winds of Earth, hands still grimy with the soil of Earth.
Well, he thought, there they go. They aren't being as emotional about it as I thought they would. I wonder if they really do care.
Julith went past with her parents. She saw him and darted from the line and curtsied before him.
"Goodbye, good sir," she said. Looking up, she showed him a small and serious face. "Will I ever see you again?"
"Well," he lied, "I might look in on you sometime."
"Please do! In a few years, maybe, when you can."
It takes many generations to raise a people like this to our standard. In a few years—to me—she'll be in her grave.