THE PURE OBSERVERS BY B. J. ROGERS _The history of space-flight begins before man. While our planet still lay wrapped in its dream of isolation, other intelligences watched from above--minds pure, undying, noble--and pathetically vulnerable...._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "_Oh, he is dead!" my mind cried out._ Novna, my dear, I am writing this as a release for my conscience. Those things which trouble me are not such as one exchanges with vigil companions, or indeed with anyone not bound by ties like ours. If I were at home with you I would exchange with your soul in a moment the feeling of my own, but distance permits no such consolation and it is not suitable for me to exchange so familiarly with my colleagues. I find myself questioning the value of our customary refusal to communicate thoughts of a delicate and sensitive nature. The Earth people, who speak their thoughts, perhaps are less primitive than we like to imagine. They seem to have no sense of the danger of overwhelming the soul of another with unwanted confidences. The purely vocal nature of their communication does not admit an excessive degree of emotion to their relationships. They do not have to erect any artificial barriers between each other, as we must who exchange on a mental level. These doubts of mine never could have arisen if we men of Hainos had not presumed to observe the alien ways of those creatures on the third Earth, so like ourselves and yet so remote, though we have hovered above them, listening and watching, for twelve of their generations. This vigil, though it is to last but one journey around the sun, has seemed longer and less fruitful than all the others. I think I shall not come again, but leave such work to those who can remain efficient and disinterested Observers, unmoved by doubt and anxiety. Novna, you must begin to think what we two shall do with the rest of our eternity, for now that I have spent some small portion of mine in fifty vigils, I find they have become distasteful. We might go to the Palace of Art and study to be poet-priests. My last vigil has convinced me that I am more fitted for that life than this. When our mission left Hainos for the third Earth, there was aboard our ship the poet-priest Gven. You must remember the many nights we sat beneath the rocks by the ocean, listening as his soul gave ours his songs. Innocent they were, and filled with talk of purity and light, though Gven is as old as the rest of us, even if he is as different from you and me as the Earth child is from its parents.