An Earth human whose name was Augustine once sang in his confession:
"What, then, is time? "If no one asks me, I know.
"If I wish to explain it to someone who asks, I know not."
But one of the aiodoi, who do know that they are also scientists (since the aiodoi know that they are everything), sings instead: "Time is always. "Time is all.
"Time is only illusion, but there is no other truth than time."
1
The individual was known as Chief Thunderbird, and he was a Turtle—at least, that was the name human beings had given their benefactors from space. Chief Thunderbird wasn't his actual name, either. That too was simply what human beings generally called him. Properly he was addressed by his title, which was Proctor for Human Oversight. In his own language he had a name, of course, but that didn't matter to human beings. Human people had no hope of pronouncing the shrill squawks and high-frequency hisses of the Brotherhood.
The Proctor turned one wandering eye to gaze down at his companion and gestured with one sinuous, webby claw. "Now, Younger Brother," he said benignly, or as benignly as a Turtle's screech could ever sound, "this will be your main post of duty as Facilitator."
The Younger Brother allowed both his eyes to roam without pleasure over the vista before him. This was the Brotherhood's largest compound on Earth, with its hundreds of human workers and busy trains of materiel converging at the foot of the skyhook. "You will do good business with these beings," the Proctor promised. "Trade is just beginning to expand, now that we have completed the orbit elevator." One eye turned admiringly to gaze up at the cable of the skyhook, receding to infinity overhead. "When I first came here, we had to use actual spacecraft for all lifting in and out of orbit. Of course, the freight costs cut very heavily into the profits."
"It's very wet here," the Younger Brother complained.
Chief Thunderbird was not famous for tolerance toward subordinates. What little compassion he had was rapidly running out. This newcomer did not even look like a proper member of the Brotherhood. He was short. Where Chief Thunderbird stood nearly three meters tall, his carapace sleekly glistening silver and black in the yellow sunlight of this world called "Earth," this new one was half a meter shorter. And he was ugly. Even the color of his carapace was hideous. What could he have been eating to give it that hideous rusty-orange hue? It did not gleam at all. Taking everything together, the best word to describe this Younger Brother was "scrawny." It was hard to believe that he and the Proctor were of the same brood.
Unfortunately, the Proctor reflected sadly, such things happened. When a Mother came to the end of her fertility cycle there was always the probability that some of her last get would be—well—inferior.
The implications of that thought saddened the Proctor. It meant that the Mother—who was his own Mother, too— would have to be replaced soon. But that was the way the world went.
Chief Thunderbird drew himself up and looked around his dominion with—not with pride, no, but with contentment. Senior members of the Brotherhood did not suffer from pride. They had no need for it. They were simply well aware that their great Brotherhood spanned a thousand star systems and brought their treasures to share with lesser races like these humans—profiting greatly from such transactions, of course.
Even on this sorry, soggy little planet the Brotherhood's transactions were vast. Tens of thousands of tons of raw materials filled the cargo carts that climbed into orbit each day along the three great elevators of the skyhook. Of course, those materials were not particularly precious. They were common enough in space; this very solar system had a swarm of asteroids orbiting out past its third planet that were rich in metals and minerals. But it was a great convenience to have a planet of intelligent—well, fairly intelligent—beings to collect them and bring them here to the cargo terminals.
"They look so soft," the Younger Brother complained. "Wet, too."
The Proctor turned both eyes on the new arrival. Didn't they teach cubs any manners any more? It was a great condescension for a Proctor to show a newcomer to the planet around in this way—though a welcome one, since it meant his own eventual release.
He made an effort to be indulgent. "Yes, they are repulsive, but you will have no trouble with these humans. They are eager for trade with us."
"Why should I have trouble?" the Younger Brother asked, sounding perplexed. The Proctor for Human Oversight diverted his second eye to glare at him. This cub was simply not civilized. It was not a fitting way to speak to an Elder Brother, particularly one as distinguished as the Proctor.
Anger led the Proctor to say something that was not called for: "I remind you, Younger Brother," he snapped, "that not every creature the Brotherhood has encountered has been as agreeable as these humans."
That found its mark. The Younger Brother looked away with both eyes, shocked and embarrassed at the reminder of the ancient, but never forgotten, Sh'shrane. He muttered, "I had not forgotten, Elder Brother."
The Proctor gave him a brief nod, then waved at the compound with one hard-plated arm, allowing his eyes to roam independently. It was a busy scene, with the endless commerce of the space ladder flowing down to the base from orbit, and thence out to the world of human beings. He gestured at the human laborers and said, "The natives are entirely organic, you know."
The new Facilitator glanced around distastefully at the hurrying humans. "I know. Fragile and wet and primitive, like the Taurs."
"Almost like the Taurs, yes," the Proctor agreed. "Both species are very wet, and in some ways their physical structures resemble each other. But these Earth humans don't have those disgusting Taur superstitions."
"One hopes not," the Facilitator said fervently, gazing upward reverently with both eyes. "So they do not require improvement?"
"Well, not in the same way as the Taurs, anyway," the Proctor said thoughtfully. The Taurs had presented some serious problems to the Brotherhood, until they had found a way of preventing those problems from arising any more. "These creatures do have superstitions of their own, I'm afraid. You'll see. But they're anxious for trade, and very desirous of our machines—and very impressed, too, by our space technology." He waved an arm toward the majestic space ladder. "Now that this is completed our commerce can really develop, with cargoes leaving all the time. The humans will help us in this. They are quite teachable, with some technological help we can give them. Even without it, some of the humans have even been allowed to operate waveships."
The Facilitator looked shocked, but was now too chastened to say so. He only said, "In the wisdom of the Mother no errors are possible." His tone caused the Proctor to look at him sharply, but the Facilitator was not pursuing the subject. He was staring around him with both his eyes, each roaming independently to take in part of the view, none of it very appealing to the new Younger Brother. "It's so hot and wet here," he complained again.
The Proctor, who knew just how much hotter and wetter it was likely to become as the seasons changed, hid his amusement. "You'll get used to it. Be pleased that you are assigned to work in this compound. The bases for the other two legs of the ladder are even worse. They had to be located in what this planet calls its tropical zone."
The Facilitator sighed, contemplating the years ahead in this soggy, steamy climate. "And this place was one of their 'cities'?" he said, shuddering slightly.
"Yes, they are disgusting," Chief Thunderbird agreed. The mere idea of a "city" was unpleasant: imagine a race that settled itself in vast structures, when the proper purpose of any being is to quest for new gifts for his Mother.