Angelo hesitated for perhaps a full minute. In that time he ordered the scene in his mind; the ship from Space, thrust upward toward the heavens like some weapon of challenge, surrounded by the gentle undulations of the low Renoir range to the far west; the rugged, ice-capped Alps of Cezanne to the south and further distant still; the low, wind-tossed and wild Van Gogh Plain that stretched endlessly to the east, and finally to the north, the fertile richness of the Valleys of Rembrandt which reached as far as the eye could see. All this, and the warmth of the clear atmosphere that embraced it all was seen and felt in that minute--by Angelo, and by the rest, as he intended they should. _This_, the minute seemed to say, _is yours. Do not betray it._ And then he was walking with the dignified deliberation of his office toward the ship, the pure white of his full toga billowing gently in the soft breezes of the Dell. There was a clanging sound. A round section of the ship, near the wide fins of its stern, swung open; men came through it, started down a series of metal rungs to the ground. As he walked, Angelo counted them--one; two; three. Three men. Three men from Earth, of course. And he knew what they wanted. They met halfway; three men from Earth in their blue-and-silver uniforms, their heads close-shaven, their boots polished as though fashioned of metal ... and Angelo, inches shorter than they, far greater in girth than they, with his feet in hide sandals, and his long white hair falling free to merge with the rolling folds of his single garment. The man in the middle of the uniformed trio spoke; the obvious leader. "This is the--the Colony of Artists, Planet of Ste. Catherine?" The heavy sound of his voice seemed to balk at the words ever so slightly. "You are their leader?" "I am Angelo, Dean of Masters here," Angelo replied. "I do not lead, but guide, instead. I am at your service, gentlemen of Earth." "You seem certain of where we are from." "But of course--do I not immediately recognize and speak your tongue?" "You would, of course," the leader said, and Angelo did not miss the hint of grudging acknowledgement in his voice as he said it. In face he was little different than the other two, although perhaps a year or two older. But for all practical purposes they were the same--the high foreheads, the too-closely-spaced blue eyes, the sharp, disciplined features, the lack of any genuine character at all. They were as much of the same bolt of cloth as the uniforms they wore. "Of course," Angelo smiled. "Our memories here on Ste. Catherine are fortunately long, and our libraries are well-filled--and well-used! And of course we have been expecting you." "_Expecting_ us?"