Again he sank deep in concentration, and then he smiled, scratched the ear that protruded from one side of the thought-helmet, and said, “We do not understand. But I do. Each of you is—is an I.”

“An individual,” I said.

“An individual,” he repeated. “A complete person. And together, to fly your ship, you must become a We.”

“But only temporarily,” I said. “There still can be conflict between the parts. That’s necessary, for progress. I can always think of the rest of them as They.”

“I… They,” Alaree repeated slowly. “They.” He nodded. “It is difficult for me to grasp all this. I… think differently. But I am coming to understand, and I am worried.”

That was a new idea. Alaree worried? Could be, I reflected. I had no way of knowing. I knew so little about Alaree—where on the planet he came from, what his tribal life was like, what sort of civilization he had, were all blanks.

“What kind of worries, Alaree?”

“You would not understand,” he said solemnly and would say no more.

Toward afternoon, as golden shadows started to slant through the closely packed trees, I returned to the ship. Willendorf and Ketteridge were aft, working over the feed network, and the whole crew had gathered around to watch and offer suggestions. Even Alaree was there, looking absurdly comical in his copper-alloy thought-converter helmet, standing on tiptoe and trying to see what was happening.

About an hour later, I spotted the alien sitting by himself beneath the long-limbed tree that towered over the ship. He was lost in thought. Evidently whatever his problem was, it was really eating him.

Toward evening, he made a decision. I had been watching him with a great deal of concern, wondering what was going on in that small but unfathomable mind. I saw him brighten, leap up suddenly, and cross the field, heading in my direction.