That assumed these creatures really were humanity’s long-hidden patrons, as Ling claimed. Lark tried to retain an attitude of cautious neutrality but found it hard in the face of such evidence. How could this race be any other than humankind’s lost patrons?

When the two august visitors were introduced to the assembled High Sages, Lark drew comfort from the serene expressions of Vubben, Phwhoon-dau, and the others, none of whom wore rewq for the occasion. Even Lester Cambel remained composed — at least on the outside — when presented to Ro-kenn and Ro-pol, whose names Rann proclaimed for all to hear.

By human standards, Ro-kenn appeared to be male. And though Lark tried not to be overly influenced by analogies, the more delicate-featured Ro-pol struck him as possibly female. The crowd murmured when the two smiled — revealing small white teeth — conveying apparent pleasure at the meeting. Ro-pol’s grin creased in ways that might even be called dimples. The word merry tempted Lark, as a way to describe the slighter Rothen’s cheerful mien. It wouldn’t be hard to like a face like that, so warm, open, and filled with understanding.

It makes sense, Lark thought. If the Rothen really are our patrons, wouldn’t they have ingrained us with similar esteem patterns?

Nor were Earthlings alone affected. After all, the Six Races had a lot of experience with each other. You didn’t have to be a qheuen to sense the charisma of a stately queen, so why shouldn’t an urs, or hoon, or g’Kek sense this potent humanoid magnetism? Even without rewq, most of the nonhumans present seemed caught up in the prevailing mood — hope.

Lark recalled Ling’s assurance that the forayer mission would succeed without incident, and Jijo’s Commons needn’t be changed in any but positive ways. “It will all work out,” she had said.

Ling had also told him the Rothen were special beings, even among high Galactic clans. Operating in deliberate obscurity, they had quietly arranged for Old Earth to lie fallow, off the colonization lists, for half a billion years, an accomplishment with implications Lark found hard to imagine. Needing no fleets or weapons, the Rothen were influential, mystical, mysterious — in many ways godlike even compared with those beings whose vast armadas thundered across the Five Galaxies. No wonder Ling and her peers thought themselves above so-called “laws” of migration and uplift, as they sifted Jijo’s biosphere for some worthy species to adopt. No wonder she seemed fearless over the possibility of being caught.

The newly cave-fledged rewq also appeared dazzled, ever since the tall pair emerged from the buried research station. The one on Lark’s brow trembled, casting splashy aurae around the two Rothen till he finally had to peel it back.

Lark tried to wrest control over his thoughts, reclaiming a thread of skepticism.

It may be that all advanced races learn to do what the Rothen are doing now — impressing those beneath themon the ladder of status. Perhaps we’re all extra-susceptible on account of being primitives, having no other experience with Galactics.

But skepticism was slippery as the Rothen emissaries conversed with the sages in voices that seemed warm, compassionate. A robot amplified the discourse for all to hear.

“We two now express grateful and respectful honors for your hospitality,” Ro-kenn said in a very prim, grammatically perfect GalSixish.

“Furthermore, we now express regret for any anxiety our presence may have generated among your noble Commons,” Ro-pol added. “Only of late have we come to realize the depth of your unease. Overcoming our natural reticence — our shyness, if you will — we now emerge to soothe your quite unwarranted fears.”

Again, whispers of tentative hope from the crowd — not an easy emotion for Jijoan exiles.

Ro-kenn spoke again.

“Now we express joy and appreciation to have been invited to attend your sacred rites. One of us shall accompany you on this eve, to witness the wonderment inherent in, and remarkably expressed by, your renowned and Holy Egg.”

“Meanwhile,” Ro-pol continued, “the other of us shall withdraw to contemplate how best to reward your Commons for your pains, your worries, and your hard sequestered lives.”

Ro-pol appeared to muse on the problem for a moment, choosing her words.

“Some gift, we foresee. Some benefaction to help you through the ages ahead, as each of your cojoined races seeks salvation down the long, courageous path known as Return-to-innocence.”

A murmur coursed the ranks of onlookers — pleasure at this surprising news.

Now each of the sages took turns making a welcoming speech, starting with Vubben, whose aged wheels squeaked as he rolled forward to recite from one of the oldest scrolls. Something apropos about the ineffable nature of mercy, which drifts upward from the ground when least expected, a grace that cannot be earned or even merited, only lovingly accepted when it comes.

Lark let the neophyte rewq slip back over his eyes. The Rothen pair remained immersed in a nimbus of confused colors, so while Vubben droned on, he turned and scanned the assembled onlookers.

Of course rewq offered no magic window to the soul. Mostly, they helped make up for the fact that each race came equipped with brain tissue specifically adapted for reading emotional cues from its own kind. Rewq were most effective when facing another rewq-equipped being, especially if the two symbionts first exchanged empathy hormones.

Is that why the sages aren’t wearing theirs now? In order to protect secret thoughts?

From the throng he picked up ripples of fragile optimism and mystical wonder, cresting here and there with spumelike waves of near-religious fervor. There were other colors, however. From several dozen qheuens, hoon, urs, and men — proctors and militia guards — there flowed cooler shades of duty. Refusal to be distracted by anything short of a major earthquake.

Another glittering twinkle Lark quickly recognized as a different kind of duty, more complex, focused, and vain. It accompanied a brief reflection off a glass lens. Bloor and his comrades at work, Lark guessed. Busy recording the moment.

Lark’s symbiont was working better now. In fact, despite its lack of training, it might never again be quite this sensitive. At this moment almost every rewq in the valley was the same age, fresh from caves where they had lately mingled in great piles, sharing unity enzymes. Each would be acutely aware of the others, at longer than normal range.

I should warn Bloor. His people shouldn’t wear rewq. If it lets me spot them, it might help robots, too.

Another swirl caught his eye, flashing bitterly from the far end of the Glade, standing out from the prevailing mood like a fire burning on an ice-field. There was no mistaking a flare of acrid hate.

Finally he made out a shaggy snakelike neck, rising from the profile of a small centaur. Rewq-mediated colors, like a globe of distilled loathing, obscured the head itself.

The wearer of that distant, powerful symbiont suddenly seemed to notice Lark’s focused regard. Shifting her attention from aliens and sages, she turned to face Lark directly. Across a crowd of shifting, sighing citizens, they watched each other’s colors. Then, in unison each pulled back their rewq.

In clear light, Lark met her unblinking stare — the urrish leader of the zealot cause. A rebel whose malice toward invaders was stronger than Lark had realized. With those three fierce eyes turned his way, Lark needed no symbiont to translate the zealot’s feelings toward him.

Under the late afternoon sun, her neck twisted and she snarled an urrish smile of pure, disdainful contempt.