Birthright

And indeed, reflected Breece, Man wasn't just another species to be recorded and forgotten in the

history books. He was something special, something very different. No other race was capable of such generosity, such idealism, such achievement; and, too, no other race could produce such examples of pettiness, bestiality, dishonor, and dishonesty. Whatever else could be said for Man, he was unique—which, when all was said and done, was why she stood on Man's mother world, cold and rain-soaked, searching for whatever it was that had given shape to this strange, intelligent ape, that had made him better than the galaxy's best, poorer than its worst, had made him reach out to the stars and scream his defiance in the face of Destiny. She stood in the twilight, staring out across what had once, eons ago, been the Serengeti Plains. This now-barren piece of land, stretching from the still-picturesque Ngorongoro Crater to the dry bed of Lake Victoria, had seen almost all the history of Man while he was still Earthbound. Here he had been born, had first invented the wheel and the bludgeon, had first discovered fire. Here he had pitted himself in naked battle with the legendary black-maned lion, and had sold his fellow Man into bondage. The First and Fourth World Wars had extended far enough south and east to turn the Serengeti into a temporary battlefield. It was here, six hundred years before the beginning of the Galactic Era, that Man had exterminated the last of his competing land-dwelling species, and it was here, a century later, that the initial research was done on the Tachyon Drive. And now the Serengeti stood lonely and deserted again, knee-high in jungle grasses, bordered by wait-a-bit thorn trees, hiding a million years of human debris and artifacts beneath its soil. It seemed a good place to search for answers. With a sigh, Breece turned and walked back to her dome. Tomorrow, if the rain let up, she'd begin digging, marking, cataloging. And maybe, just maybe... She jumped as she heard the cracking of some twigs behind her. “Who's there?” she demanded.

“I saw your camp and took the liberty of coming over,” said the cold, clear tones of a modified Terran T-pack.

“Who are you?” she asked, peering into the gathering darkness. “I am Milnor, of the moon Kormonos, system of Atria, race of Rinn,” said the voice. She peered again, and finally could make out the Rinn's figure. It was vaguely humanoid in shape, a bit squatter and more muscular than a Man, with a greenish tint to the skin. There was considerable hair on the body, which was unclothed but for a pouch suspended from one shoulder. The Rinn spoke into a T-pack, which was strapped around a protuberance which appeared to be a chin, but wore no face mask or helmet, and seemed quite at home breathing Earth's air. “I am Breece, race of Man,” she said. “What are you doing here?” “I am an archaeologist,” said Milnor. “I have spent the past seventeen years on Earth, digging through ruins, rummaging through still-standing buildings, even interviewing those Men who still cling to this world. I have been in the Serengeti for almost two months. One of my robots informed me of another camp. I came to ascertain your motives for being here.”