Holbrook sighed. "I suppose it was built in the last dying age of reason. Some atavistic genius (how lonely he must have been!) realized what was happening. Sooner or later, visitors from space were sure to arrive. He wanted to give his descendants at least a little defense against them. He built that machine, which could try to identify them, could give a few simple orders about their disarmament and care and feeding, that sort of thing. He used some controlled-mutation process to breed the technicians that serviced it, and the obedience of the guards. Or perhaps it was enough to institute a set of laws. There'd be natural selection toward an instinct.... It really wasn't much he could do. A poor, clumsy protection against diseases we might have carried, or wanton looting, or...." Holbrook lifted his face into the wind. Sunlight streamed through summer leaves, it fell like a benediction on him and on the young woman who held his hand. Now, when the technical problem was disposed of, his voice came more slowly and awkwardly: "I could pity the Zolotoyans, except that they're beyond it. They are as empty of selfhood as insects. But the one who built the computer, can't you almost hear him back in time, asking for our mercy?" Ximénez nodded. "Well," he said, "I do not see why we should not let the ... fauna ... live. We can learn a great deal from them." "Including this:" said Holbrook, "that it shall not happen to our race. We've a planet now, and a whole new science to master. Our children or our grand-children will return to Earth." Ekaterina's hand released his, but her arm went about his waist, drawing him close as if he were a shield. Her eyes ranged the great strange horizon and she asked, very low, "After all that time here, do you think they will care about Earth?" "I don't know," said Holbrook. He tasted the light like rain on his uplifted face. It was not the sun he remembered. "I don't know, dearest. I don't even know if it matters."