The City And The Stars - Arthur C. Clarke [42]
The people of the village now watched with frank curiosity as Alvin followed his guides; there was no longer any pretence that they took him for granted. Suddenly there were shrill, high-pitched shouts from the trees on the right, and a group of small, excited creatures burst out of the woods and crowded around Alvin. He stopped in utter amazement, unable to believe his eyes. Here was something that his world had lost so long ago that it lay in the realms of mythology. This was the way that life had once begun; these noisy, fascinating creatures were human children.
Alvin watched them with wondering disbelief—and with another sensation which tugged at his heart but which he could not yet identify. No other sight could have brought home to him so vividly his remoteness from the world he knew. Diaspar had paid, and paid in full, the price of immortality.
The party halted before the largest building Alvin had yet seen. It stood in the centre of the village and from a flag-pole on its small circular tower a green pennant floated along the breeze.
All but Gerane dropped behind as he entered the building. Inside it was quiet and cool; sunlight filtering through the translucent walls lit up everything with a soft, restful glow. The floor was smooth and resilient, inlaid with fine mosaics. On the walls, an artist of great ability and power had depicted a set of forest scenes. Mingled with these paintings were other murals which conveyed nothing to Alvin’s mind, yet which were attractive and pleasant to look upon. Let into one wall was a rectangular screen filled with a shifting maze of colours—presumably a visiphone receiver, though a rather small one.
They walked together up a short circular stairway that led them out on to the flat roof of the building. From this point, the entire village was visible, and Alvin could see that it consisted of about a hundred buildings. In the distance the trees opened out to enclose wide meadows, where animals of several different types were grazing. Alvin could not imagine what these were; most of them were quadrupeds, but some seemed to have six or even eight legs.
Seranis was waiting for him in the shadow of the tower. Alvin wondered how old she was; her long, golden hair was touched with grey, which he guessed must be some indication of age. The presence of children, with all the consequences that implied, had left him very confused. Where there was birth, then surely there must be death, and the life-span here in Lys might be very different from that in Diaspar. He could not tell whether Seranis was fifty, five hundred, or five thousand years old, but looking into her eyes he could sense that wisdom and depth of experience he sometimes felt when he was with Jeserac.
She pointed to a small seat, but though her eyes smiled a welcome she said nothing until Alvin had made himself comfortable—or as comfortable as he could be under that intense though friendly scrutiny. Then she sighed, and addressed Alvin in a low, gentle voice.
‘This is an occasion which does not often arise, so you will excuse me if I do not know the correct behaviour. But there are certain rights due to a guest, even if an unexpected one. Before we talk, there is something I should warn you. I can read your mind.’
She smiled at Alvin’s consternation, and added quickly: ‘There is no need to let that worry you. No right is respected more strongly than that of mental privacy. I will enter your mind only if you invite me to. But it would not be fair to hide this fact from you, and it will explain why we find speech somewhat slow and difficult. It is not often used here.’
This revelation, though slightly alarming, did not surprise