Free The Fugitive Worlds by Bob Shaw Page B

said to the Xa. Have the Primitives seen anything?
    There was a brief pause before the Xa replied. Yes — one of them has commented on seeing 'a line of purple lights', but there is no associated emotional reaction. The event has been dismissed as insignificant, and is already being forgotten.
    I am glad of that, Divivvidiv said, using the mind-color appropriate to relief.
    Why do you experience relief, Beloved Creator? Surely a species at such an early stage of its development can pose no threat to you.
    I was not concerned about my own safety, Divivvidiv said. If the Primitives had been curious about us, and had decided to investigate, I would have been forced to destroy them.
    There was another pause before the Xa spoke. You are reluctant to kill any of the Primitives.
    Naturally.
    Because it is immoral to deprive any being of its life?
    Yes.
    In that case, Beloved Creator, the Xa said, why have you decided to kill me?
    I have told you many times that nobody has decided to kill you — it is simply a matter of. . . The talk of killing reminded Divivvidiv of why he was there, of the awesome crime against nature being perpetrated by his own kind, and a pang of anguish and guilt stilled his thoughts.

Chapter 5
    The ancient city of Ro-Atabri was immense.
    Toller had been standing at the rail of his gondola for more than an hour, staring down at the slowly expanding patch of intricate line and color patterns which differentiated the city from the surrounding terrain. He had been conditioned to regard Prad, Overland's capital, as an imposing metropolis, and had visualized Ro-Atabri as much larger but essentially the same. The reality of the historic seat of Kolcorronian power, however, was something for which he could not have prepared himself.
    He sensed that such a huge difference in size somehow led to a difference in kind, but there was more to it than that. All the cities, towns and villages on Overland had been planned, and therefore their chief characteristics sprang from the will of their architects and builders, but from high in the air Ro-Atabri resembled a natural growth, a living organism.
    It was all there, just as in the sketches his maternal grandmother—Gesalla Maraquine—used to make for him when he was a child. There was the Borann River winding into Arle Bay, which in turn opened out upon the Gulf of Tronom, and to the east was the snow-capped Mount Opelmer. Cupped in and shaped by those natural features, the city and its suburbs sprawled across the land, a vast lichen of masonry, concrete, brakka wood and clay which represented centuries of Endeavour by multitudes of human beings. The great fires which had raged on the day the Migration had begun had left a still-visible discoloration in some areas, but the durable stonework had survived intact and would serve humanity again in some future era. Flecks of orange-red and orange- brown showed where the ill-fated New Men had begun capping the shells of buildings with new tiled roofs.
    "What do you think of it, young Maraquine?" Com missioner Kettoran said, appearing at Toller's side. Now that gravity was back to normal he was feeling much better and was taking a lively interest in all aspects of the ship's affairs.
    "It's big," Toller said simply. "I can't take it in. It makes history . . . real."
    Kettoran laughed. "Did you think we'd made it up?"
    "You could have done, as far as most of the present generation are concerned, but this ... It hurts my brain, if you know what I mean."
    "I know exactly what you mean—think how I feel." Kettoran leaned further across the rail and his long face became animated. "Do you see that square patch of green just to the west of the city? That's the old Skyship Quarter—the exact spot we took off from fifty years ago! Will we be able to land there?"
    "It seems as good a place as any," Toller said. "The lateral dispersions on this flight have been remarkably slight, and those that did occur have cancelled each other out.