"Oh there are others, of course. Other groups—like ours, I guess—out in the forests—everywhere in all the forests, maybe." Her gesture toward the distant, glowing, wooded horizons was vague. "We have never tried to find out. Why should we? Wherever they are, they have all that they need or want. So have we."
The thing was so utterly simple. He pondered it. "And you—you're very happy here?"
Her wide eyes were childlike. "Why yes. Of course. Why not? Why should not everyone be happy?"
"Well," he said, "there are things—"
"Yes. I have heard of them. Things on your Earth—which the humans create for themselves—but that is very silly. We do not have them here."
Surely he could think of no retort to such childlike faith. Her faith. How horribly criminal it would be to destroy it. A priceless thing—human happiness to be created out of the faith that it was the normal thing. He realized that his heart was pounding, as though now things which had been dormant within him all his life were coming out—clamoring now for recognition.
And then, out of another silence he murmured, "Aura—you're taking me to my grandfather, aren't you? He came here from Earth—and then he sent back there to get me?"
"Yes," she admitted. "So you know it? But I was instructed to—"
"All right. We won't talk of it. And he's told you about me?"
"Yes," she agreed shyly. She caught her breath as she added, "I have been—waiting for you—a long time." Shyly she gazed up at him. The night-breeze had blown her hair partly over her face. Her hand brushed it away so that her gaze met his. "I hoped you would be, well, like you are," she added.