"Skyship?" repeated Charlie, looking at Robin. "Have you created any spaceships?"
"No. You know it's a bargain between us. We don't create anything we don't think we understand."
The Indian was sweating. His name was Tashtu, which meant Wild Eagle, and he was their go-between with the tribe. "Skyship sweep across heavens," he said. "Not land. Go up in Wild Country."
Charlie's interest quickened. Wild Country. They had created it on impulse, about twenty miles from the Indian Camp, midway between the settlements of Congressmen inland and Cyclopes on the shore. It was a place of tortuous gorges and rocks and mountains, utterly lifeless. No one ever went there. Someday, he had always told Robin, they would explore Wild Country. If there really was a spaceship, and if it had gone there ...
"No," Robin said. "I know what you're thinking. But I'm perfectly happy here."
"You just now said you sometimes thought Crimson wasn't real and there were other, real worlds which—"
"That's different. I can dream, can't I?"
"But don't you see, if a spaceship's really come, maybe they can tell us."
She gripped his arm. "Charlie. Oh, Charlie, I don't know. I'm afraid. We've been happy here, haven't we? We really wouldn't want it to change ..."