"The atmosphere's safe for all of you," she said. "Good, healthy nitrox mix, few harmful impurities, apart from a trace of predictable industrial pollution. More particulates than you three are used to, but not bad. If you want breathing filters, just ask."
Tall Eyebrow signed a polite refusal. He stared straight ahead of him as Keff moved to the controls for the airlock.
Keff stayed behind and out of sight as the ramp lowered and grounded with a squish. The Ozranians hung back a moment, reluctant to leave the surroundings that were, if not home, then safe and familiar.
"Go on," Keff urged them. "I'll be right behind you."
The amphibioids looked out across the field. Keff tried to picture himself in their place, to be the first to bridge the gap of a thousand years' silence, and was overwhelmed by the urgency of explaining, the enormity of understanding. Keff realized he had forgotten to breathe for a moment. Their feelings must have been shared by the party of dignitaries. The small party of dignitaries had pushed forward ahead of the crowd, and were looking expectantly at the ship's hatch. There was no perceptible physical difference between them and the three Ozran-born Cridi. Seeing no movement, the party surged forward again.
"It's your turn," Keff said, straightening up. "Are you ready?"
"No," Tall Eyebrow signed, "but, yes. Come."
With dignity, the small alien turned and walked out of the main cabin. Long Hand and Small Spot followed his example, straightening their spines and tilting their heads slightly upward. Together, they marched through the corridor and into the airlock. Carialle slid the inner door shut, and the outer door open.
Keff, right behind them in the shadows, heard shrill cheers as the crowd caught the first glimpse of the three Ozranians in the starship's airlock. In silhouette against the bright daylight outside, Keff could see Tall Eyebrow's knees begin to tremble. Small Spot, overwhelmed by the sound, edged backward until he bumped into Keff's legs.
"You can do it," he urged them. "Go on. Take that one last step. Just march forward. Count to a hundred. Don't think about anything but the numbers. Go on."
"One," TE counted out loud in Standard. "Two, three, four… " The other two marched behind them, out of the airlock, down the ramp, and into the sunshine. The crowd went wild, throwing flowers and sheaves of green plants into the air. Keff stayed behind to watch. He counted their footsteps. A hundred paces took the three visitors about half the way to the party of dignitaries on the edge of the field. There they hesitated, and the Cridi government officials took their cue at once. Dignified but clearly excited, they glided across the swampy ground, to alight in front of Tall Eyebrow and his companions.
"Go get 'em, frogs! Yeah!" he whispered.
"I'm all choked up," Carialle said in his ear.
Keff squinted, bringing the magnifying lens in his left eye to full telescopy, and listened to Carialle's amplified audio. He could see the expressions on the faces of the dignitaries: bemusement, kindness, curiosity, but no hostility. The globe-frogs had come home.
"Who are you?" signed the leader of the Cridi delegation, an elderly male whose once-smooth skin wrinkled into a million tiny folds around his wide mouth. A narrow cape of ornately braided strips hung to the ground from the nape of his neck. It was held there by a hammered bronze band that stretched across the top of his back and sprouted into filigree coils over his shoulders. "Where do you come from? We have seen the message sent to the beacon, and we do not know what to think."
Another Cridi, a slender female wearing a slim silver torc with matching bracelets and anklets piped an enthusiastic, "B equals B," and signed, "We agree! Since we received your transmission, all has been a flurry of excitement. Where do you come from?"
Tall Eyebrow identified himself and his companions. "We return to you from a colony world known as Ozran." The final name emerged as a buzz and a honk.
"Ozran?" one self-important frog repeated, bellying up to stand before the landing party. Of all the Cridi present, he was the largest: broad, round, and tall. His yellow green skin was mottled, reflecting a choleric nature. "What is this name Ozran?" he peeped indignantly. "Not a Cridi name." Keff chuckled to himself. It wasn't easy for a whistle to sound dignified.
"Big Voice is impatient, but he asks a question all of the Conclave have," said the elder. He brushed the palm of one hand lightly over the other and touched a delicate fingertip to his chest. "I am Smooth Hand," he said.
"In our ancestors' records our world is designated as Sky Clear." Tall Eyebrow executed two symbols quickly, and vocalized a long, complex trill. Keff's aural implant barked out a long string of numbers punctuated with signs and symbols. He recognized the resultant formula as spatial coordinates, though naturally not those used by the Central Worlds.
Without changing expression the self-important frog leaned back on his heels and waved a single finger. One of the aides came running up to the leaders with a flat board to show them his notation. The eight leaders gathered around, emitting exclamations of disbelief and amazement. The aide moved back into the crowd, signing in an apparent aside to a friend. Everyone within range observed the gist of his statement, and passed it on. Word went around, catching fire within the group, until everyone was speculating about the data on the screen.
"How is this possible?" the senior Cridi said, looking up from the small board with delight. "We thought that colony had died. It was mourned many hundreds of years past. So many of our world's offshoots have failed, we thought that Sky Clear was just one more."
"We lost touch with Cridi through no fault of our own," Tall Eyebrow said. "It is a story of treachery, survival and, lastly, friendship, with beings like Keff." He turned to look expectantly back at the ship.
"My cue," Keff said, pulling down his tunic hem to make certain it was straight.
"I should say so," Carialle said. "Final subvocal check, please."
"If the folks back at SSS-900-C could see me now," Keff pronounced, into his oral implant as he stepped out into the airlock and walked down the ramp.
"You'd be the handsome prince from the fairy tale," Carialle said, amused. "Don't let anyone kiss you, or you'll turn back into a frog, too. Watch your step."
The high humidity of the air outside slapped him in the face like a wet fish. Keff felt almost as if he were walking through a curtain of water, and highly unsavory swamp water at that. Phew. What he'd imagined looked like smooth, rolling fields was a level and endless pool of watery mud with petal-like plants growing on top, giving only an impression of solidity. He'd go floundering if he chanced to step off the solid base of the landing pad. No wonder nothing was ever built out on these open spaces. The atmosphere was breathable and flavored with smelly esters from abundant plant decay. Good photosynthesis action, that meant, resulting in the cyclic exchange of carbon dioxide. No wonder their explorers had chosen Ozran. The Cridi wanted the same things humans did in a colony. The xenobiologists were going to have a picnic here. As long as they didn't spread their cloth out on the green.
Keff moved slowly and cautiously, holding his hands away from his body to show that he was harmless, but there was no way to lessen the impact of his appearance on the crowd. As soon as they saw him, some of the Cridi scattered and ran away, shrieking. The rest stood rigid, staring and pointing, rows upon rows of pairs of beady black eyes, and long, green digits like accusatory asparagus.
He raised his arms to his waist to sign, "We come in peace."