He found the co-ordinator inspecting a newly finished canning factory on the coast, elated at the completion of one more link in making the colony self-sustaining.
"Here it is," said Otis, waving the message copy. "Signed by the chief himself. 'As of this date, the apelike beings known as Torangs, indigenous to planet number and so forth, are to be considered a rare and protected species under regulations and so forth et cetera."
"Good enough," answered Finchley with an amiable shrug. "Give it here, and I'll have it put on the public address system and the bulletin boards."
Otis returned satisfied to the helicopter that had brought him out from headquarters.
"Back, sir?" asked the pilot.
"Yes . . . no! Just for fun, take me out to the old city. I never did get a good look the other day, and I'd like to before I leave."
They flew over the plains between the sea and the up-jutting cliffs.
In the distance, Otis caught a glimpse of the rising dam he had been shown the day before. This colony would go well, he reflected, as long as he checked up on details like preserving native life forms.
Eventually, the pilot landed at the same spot he had been taken on his previous visit to the ancient ruins. Someone else was on the scene today.
Otis saw a pair of men he took to be archaeologists.
"I'll just wander around a bit," he told the pilot.
He noticed the two men looking at him from where they stood by the shovels and other equipment, so he paused to say hello. As he thought, they had been digging in the ruins.
"Taking some measurements in fact," said the sunburned blond introduced as Hoffman. "Trying to get a line on what sort of things built the place."
"Oh?" said Otis, interested. "What's the latest theory?"
"Not so much different from us," Hoffman told the inspector while his partner left them to pick up another load of artifacts.
"Judging from the size of the rooms, height of doorways, and such stuff as stairways," he went on, "they were pretty much our size. So far, of course, it's only a rough estimate."
"Could be ancestors of the Torangs, eh?" asked Otis.
"Very possible, sir," answered Hoffman, with a promptness that suggested it was his own view. "But we haven't dug up enough to guess at the type of culture they had, or draw any conclusions as to their psychology or social customs."
Otis nodded, thinking that he ought to mention the young fellow's name to Finchley before he left Torang. He excused himself as the other man returned with a box of some sort of scraps the pair had unearthed, and strolled between the outlines of the untouched buildings.
In a few minutes, he came to the section of higher structures where he had encountered the Torang the previous day.
"Wonder if I should look in the same spot?" he muttered aloud. "No . .
that would be the last place the thing would return to . . . unless it had a lair thereabouts--" He stopped to get his bearings, then shrugged and walked around a mound of rubble toward what he believed to be the proper building.
Pretty sure this was it, he mused. Yes, shadows around that window arch look the same . . . same time of day He halted, almost guiltily, and looked back to make sure no one was observing his futile return to the scene of his little adventure. After all, an inspector of colonial installations was not supposed to run around ghost-hunting like a small boy.
Finding himself alone, he stepped briskly through the crumbling arch --and froze in his tracks.
"I am honored to know you," said the Torang in a mild, rather buzzing voice. 'We thought you possibly would return here."
Otis gaped. The black eyes projecting from the sides of the narrow head tracked him up and down, giving him the unpleasant sensation of being measured for an artillery salvo.
"I am known as Jal-Ganyr," said the Torang. "Unless I am given incorrect data, you are known as Jeff-Otis. That is so."
The last statement was made with almost no inflection, but some stillfunctioning comer of Otis' mind interpreted it as a question. He sucked in a deep breath, suddenly conscious of having forgotten to breathe for a moment.
"I didn't know . . . yes, that is so . . . I didn't know you Torangs could speak Terran. Or anything else. How--?"
He hesitated as a million questions boiled up in his mind to be asked.
Jal-Ganyr absently stroked the gray fur of his chest with his three-fingered left hand, squatting patiently on a flat rock. Otis felt somehow that he had been allowed to waste time mumbling only by grace of disciplined politeness.
"I am not of the Torangs," said Jal-Ganyr in his wheezing voice. "I am of the Myrbs. You would possibly say Myrbii. I have not been informed."
"You mean that is your name for yourselves?" asked Otis.
Jal-Ganyr seemed to consider, his mobile eyes swiveling inward to scan the Terran's face.
"More than that," he said at last, when he had thought it over. "I mean I am of the race originating at Myrb, not of this planet."
"Before we go any further," insisted Otis, "tell me, at least, how you learned our language!"
Jal-Ganyr made a fleeting gesture. His "face" was unreadable to the Terran, but Otis had the impression he had received the equivalent of a smile and a shrug.
"As to that," said the Myrb, "I possibly learned it before you did. We have observed you a very long time. You would unbelieve how long."
"But then--" Otis paused. That must mean before the colonists had landed on this planet. He was half-afraid it might mean before they had reached this sun system. He put aside the thought and asked, "But then, why do you live like this among the ruins? Why wait till now?
If you had communicated, you could have had our help rebuilding--" He let his voice trail off, wondering what sounded wrong. Jal-Ganyr rolled his eyes about leisurely, as if disdaining the surrounding ruins. Again, he seemed to consider all the implications of Otis' questions.
"We picked up your message to your chief," he answered at last. "We decided time is to communicate with one of you.
"We have no interest in rebuilding," he added. "We have concealed quarters for ourselves."
Otis found that his lips were dry from his unconsciously having let his mouth hang open. He moistened them with the tip of his tongue, and relaxed enough to lean against the wall.
"You mean my getting the ruling to proclaim you a protected species?"
he asked. "You have instruments to intercept such signals?"
"I do. We have," said Jal-Ganyr simply. "It has been decided that you have expanded far enough into space to make necessary we contact a few of the thoughtful among you. It will possibly make easier in the future for our observers."
Otis wondered how much of that was irony. He felt himself flushing at the memory of the "stuffed specimen" at headquarters, and was peculiarly relieved that he had not gone to see it.
I've had the luck, he told himself. I'm the one to discover the first known intelligent beings beyond Sol!
Aloud, he said, "We expected to meet someone like you eventually. But why have you chosen me?"
The question sounded vain, he realized, but it brought unexpected results.
"Your message. You made in a little way the same decision we made in a big way. We deduce that you are one to understand our regret and shame at what happened between our races . . . long ago."
"Yes. For a long time, we thought you were all gone. We are pleased to see you returning to some of your old planets."
Otis stared blankly. Some instinct must have enabled the Myrb to interpret his bewildered expression. He apologized briefly.
"I possibly forgot to explain the ruins." Again, Jal-Ganyr's eyes swiveled slowly about.
"They are not ours," he said mildly. "They are yours."
A NOTE ABOUT THE EDITOR.
John W. Campbell, Jr. has been perhaps the strongest single influence in the steady progress of modern science fiction from its "space opera" beginnings to its present maturity and ever-increasing acceptance by the general public.
In his thirteen years as editor of Astounding Science Fiction magazine, Campbell has guided, encouraged, and shaped the development of a great number of the foremost writers in the field including many of those represented in this selection of his personal favorites.
Born in 1910 in Newark, New Jersey, Campbell was educated as a nuclear physicist at M.I.T. and Duke. Finding, during the Depression, "a great lack of employment for physicists," he turned to science fiction.
Campbell has written several notable s-f stories, under his own name and as "Don Stuart," (the recent science fiction movie, The Thing, was derived from his story, Who Goes There?) and is the author of The Atomic Story, non-fiction, published in 1947. He now lives in Mountainside, New Jersey, with his wife and four children.