It looked to be a cheerful world. There were a thousand kinds of forest, jungle, savannah. Sunny rivers coursed green fields. A thousand lakes and three oceans glowed blue. To the far north and far south snowfields glittered, dazzled. Such cities as they found-the world seemed sparsely settled-merged indistinguishably with the countryside.
They were wide low cities, very different from the clanging hives of Earth, and lay under the greenery like carvings in alabaster or miraculous snowflakes. Betty, in whose nature ran a strong streak of the romantic, was entranced.
"They look like cities of Paradise-cities in a dream!"
Welstead said reflectively, "They're evidently not backward. See that cluster of long gray buildings off to the side? Those are factories."
Betty voiced a doubt which had been gradually forming into words. "Do you think they might-resent our landing? If they've gone to the trouble of creating a secret - well, call it Utopia - they might not want to be discovered."
Welstead turned his head, gazed at her eye to eye. "Do you want to land?" he asked soberly.
"Why, yes - if you do. If you don't think it's dangerous."
"I don't know whether it's dangerous or not. A people as enlightened as those cities would seem to indicate would hardly maltreat strangers."
Betty searched the face of the planet "I think it would be safe."
Welstead laughed. "I'm game. We've got to die sometime. Why not out here?"
He jumped up to the controls, nosed the ship down.
"We'll land right in their laps, right in the middle of that big city down there."
Betty looked at him questioningly.
"No sense sneaking down out in the wilds," said Welstead. "If we're landing we'll land with a flourish."
"And if they shoot us for our insolence?"
"Call it Fate."
They bellied down into a park in the very center of the city. From the observation dome Welstead glimpsed hurrying knots of people.
"Go to the port, Betty. Open it just a crack and show yourself. I'll stay at the controls. One false move, one dead cat heaved at us, and we'll be back in space so fast they won't remember we arrived."
Thousands of men and women of all ages had surrounded the ship, all shouting, all agitated by strong emotion..
"They're throwing flowers" Betty gasped. She opened the port and stood in the doorway and the people below shouted, chanted, wept. Feeling rather ridiculous, Betty waved, smiled.
She turned to look back up at Welstead. "I don't know what we've done to deserve all this but we're heroes. Maybe they think we're somebody else."
Welstead craned his neck through the observation dome, "They look healthy-normal."
"They're beautiful," said Betty. "All of them."
The throng opened, a small group of elderly men and women approached. The leader, a white-haired man, tall, lean, with much the same face as Michelangelo's Jehovah, stood forth.
"Welcome!" he called resonantly. "Welcome from the people of Haven!"
Betty stared, and Welstead clambered down from the controls: The words were strangely pronounced, the grammar was archaic-but it was the language of Earth.
The white-haired man spoke on, without calculation, as if delivering a speech of great familiarity. "We have waited two hundred and seventy-one years for your coming, for the deliverance you will bring us."
Deliverance? Welstead considered the word. "Don't see much to deliver 'Emn from," he muttered aside to Betty. "The sun's shining, they look well-fed-a lot more enthusiastic than I do. Deliver 'Em from what?"
Betty was climbing down to the ground and Welstead followed.
"Thanks for the welcome," said Welstead, trying not to sound like a visiting politician. "We're glad to be here. It's a wonderful experience, coming unexpectedly on a world like this."
The white-haired man bowed gravely. "Naturally you must be curious-as curious as we are about the civilized universe. But for the present, just one question for the ears of our world. How goes it with Earth?"
Welstead rubbed his chin, acutely conscious of the thousands of eyes, the utter silence.
"Earth," he said, "goes about as usual. There's the same seasons, the same rain, sunshine, frost and wind." And the people of Haven breathed in his words as devoutly as if they were the purest poetry. "Earth is still the center of the Cluster and there's more people living on Earth than ever before. More noise, more nuisance ..."
"Wars? New governments? How far does science reach?"
Welstead considered. "Wars? None to speak of-not since the Hieratic League broke up. The government still governs, uses lots of statistical machinery. There's still graft, robbery, inefficiency, if that's what you mean.
"Science-that's a big subject. We know a lot but we don't know a lot more, the way it's always been. Everything considered, it's the same Earth it's always been-some good, a lot of bad."
He paused, and the pent breath of the listeners went in a great sigh. The white-haired man nodded again, serious, sober-though evidently infected with the excitement that fixed his fellows.
"No more for the present! You'll be tired and there's much time for talk. May I offer you the hospitality of my house?"
Welstead looked uncertainly at Betty. Instinct urged him not to leave his ship.
"Or if you'd prefer to remain aboard ..." suggested the man of Haven.
"No," said Welstead. "We'll be delighted." If harm were intended - as emphatically did not seem likely - their presence aboard the ship would not prevent it. He craned his neck, looked here and there for the officialdom that would be bumptiously present on Earth.
"Is there anyone we should report to? Any law we'll be breaking by parking our ship here?"
The white-haired man laughed. "What a question! I am Alexander Clay, Mayor of this city Mytilene and Guide of Haven. By my authority and by common will you are free of anything the planet can offer you. Your ship will not be molested."
He led them to a wide low car and Betty was uncomfortably conscious of her blue shorts, rumpled and untidy by comparison with the many-colored tunics of the women in the crowd.
Welstead was interested in the car as providing a gauge of Haven's technics. Built of shiny gray metal it hung a foot above the ground, without the intervention of wheels. He gave Clay a startled look. "Anti-gravity? Your fortune's made."
Clay shook his head indulgently. "Magnetic fields, antipathetic to the metal in the road. Is it not a commonplace on Earth?"
"No," said Welstead. "The theory, of course, is well-known but there is too much opposition, too many roads to dig up. We still use wheels."
Clay said reflectively, "The force of tradition. The continuity which generates the culture of races. The stream we have been so long lost from...."
Welstead shot him a sidelong glance. Clay was entirely serious.
The car had been sliding down the road at rather high speed through vistas of wonderful quiet and beauty. Every direction showed a new and separate enchantment - a glade surrounded by great trees, a small home of natural wood, a cluster of public buildings around a plaza, a terrace checkered with trees and lined with many-colored shops.
Occasionally there were touches of drama, such as the pylon at the end of a wide avenue. It rose two hundred feet into the air, a structure of concrete, bronze and black metal, and it bore the heroic figure of a man grasping vainly for a star.
Welstead craned his neck like a tourist. "Magnificent!"
Clay assented without enthusiasm. "I suppose it's not discreditable. Of course, to you, fresh from the worlds of civilization..." He left the sentence unfinished. "Excuse me, while I call my home." He bent his head to a telephone.