A small crowd gathered in a loose clump between the low dwellings. The bulky male had ceased his hooting. No one else made a sound.

I shifted my gaze around the group, then repeated what I had said before, adding, “We are Forerunners. You are the same. Is there anyone here who speaks of times past?”

The old Digon did not come easily—no doubt the ancilla could have pronounced the words better, or gotten the grammar more correct. Words live as genes live, some parts conserved, others wildly variable. But then, we already knew it was unlikely they understood even this old tongue.

An older female broke from the group and with a shrug of her shoulders walked toward us, stopping within three paces. Chant seemed ready to intervene, but I waggled my hand behind my back.

The old female stared beyond my shoulder, then turned her eyes on me. She pulled thin lips back from strong gray teeth, favoring me with a full-blown smile. These Forerunners were still capable of that rictus, while I could barely manage to lift the corners of my lips!

But I did my best and again held out my hands.

The female grasped my outstretched fingers. Her own fingers were covered with dirt and green stains. They felt greasy, but her grip was firm. She tugged gently, urging me to come with her, and again favored me with a smile.

I followed. After ten long steps, we seemed to cross a line, and the rest rushed forward to surround us. A smaller group broke free and encircled Chant. In her armor, she towered above them all, in a posture of calmness and caution—as we had been trained. Best to appear neither too friendly nor defenseless and predictable.

The crowds merged, corralling us into their center, touching us not unkindly but with rude familiarity. Chant’s eyes flashed. Their touches grew more intimate. They wished to know everything about me. What they discovered surprised them. They pulled back a little, dismayed, but kept smiling. Our methods of reproduction had diverged substantially over millions of years.

The crowd now parted, forming a channel down which another, much older female, with stiff, steely gray fur on both crown and shoulders, pushed through, waved the first female aside, and took a position beside me, then looked at all the others, as if daring them to interfere.

She turned and grasped my wrist, lifting my arm.

The others pulled back.

She looked up into my face, smiled brilliantly, showing strong teeth—gray and none too clean. At that moment, I swear that but for the nose and fur she seemed almost human—something in her eyes, her curiously committed expression, an atavistic glimpse at what may have been our common roots long, long ago.…

And then she bit me. Fastened those gray teeth into my forearm, jerked her jaw sidewise, opening up shallow but painful wounds. I did not move, did not cry out—held my ground.