It was true. We checked on the atmosphere readings, found the temperature 76 fahrenheit, a mild spring day. We opened the locks and stepped out on the soil of Spor, Jim lugging the portable mentameter. I heard a buzzing sound. An airplane, of ancient vintage, judging by the museum films, circled overhead. Men in field gray, wearing leather leggings and caps, rode up on noisy, two wheeled machines.
"The Twentieth Century comes to life," Jim muttered. "It's like a dream."
A man with slightly gray hair stepped from one of the cars, approached us, flanked by the guards. He spoke, but the words were unintelligible. Jim smiled, pointed skyward and to the ship. The greeter nodded as if he understood. Then Jim put down the mentameter pack, adjusted earphones and the clamp about his temples. He gestured for the other to do likewise.
Someone protested, and there was an argument, while we waited. Then the gray haired man spoke with curtness, and the guards fell back. Smiling, the Spor dweller put on the mentameter receiver. Jim began speaking slowly. "I am Jim Drake, of Earth, from which your ancestors were removed from Atlantis by Martians. We were sent here by other Martians."
The Spor governor, for that was what we learned he was, shouted to the throng. He spoke excitedly and people began to cheer, to gather more closely. Then he spoke to Jim. By then I had on the spare receiver.
"You are fulfilling a legend," the governor said. "From our early days the writings of our forefathers foretold the day when Earthmen would come from beyond the dark spaces. I, Tarquin of Spor and governor of the city of Osmand, welcome you. And if you will pardon my curiosity, what manner of machine is this, to interpret our thoughts?"
"Brother," I cut in, "it's as mysterious to me as it must be to you. The Martians perfected it and hold the secret."
"You think and talk like one of us," the governor chuckled. "Our astronomers sighted you yesterday and they predicted a landing at Osmand. So we are not exactly surprised."
We wound up with posting a guard about the ship and riding into the city with Tarquin. A radio in the car reported our progress, the announcer manifestly excited. We found thousands on streets and sidewalks and crowding office windows. Above all, we had the feeling we were among Earthmen, and yet it wasn't our technocratic manner of life either. There was nothing orderly. And I felt that I liked this way of living. I was in the same state of mind a week later, when Jim and I had already learned enough about the language of Spor to talk, and we'd been cramming on their history from the time the Martians left off so many centuries before. At Shadrak's suggestion, we'd kept quiet on our real mission. We found ourselves popular in Osmand as the days grew on, and we were guests of Governor Tarquin, on a swell estate bordering a small river. And then, as thousands lined the river for a water carnival, Tarquin told us all was not well on Spor. We were on a terrace and it reminded me somehow of Shadrak's place, without the dome, or eternal robots. "Take this city," he exclaimed. "We are a democracy, at peace with the world. But across the sea, in Plevia, there is a colony gathering strength, headed by Garok, a troublemaker we exiled ten years ago from Osmand."