Imbry sat on the porch with Iano. Both of them looked out over the village square, sitting side by side. It seemed to be the expected posture for conversation between a god and someone who was himself a likely candidate for a similar position, and it certainly made for ease of quiet contemplation before each new sentence was brought out into words.

Imbry was still wearing his suit. Iano had politely suggested that he might be warm in it, but Imbry had explained.

“It cools me. That’s only one of the things it does. For one thing, if I took it off I wouldn’t be able to talk to you. In my country we have different words.” Iano had thought about it for a moment. Then he said: “Your wraparound must have powerful ancestors living in it.” He thought a moment more. “Am I right in supposing that this is a new attribute you’re trying out, and it hasn’t grown up enough to go about without advice?”

Imbry’d been glad of several minutes in which to think. Then he’d tried to explain.

“No,” he said, “the suit” (perforce, the word was wrap-around-for-the-whole-body) “was made—was built—by other men in my country. It was built to protect me and to make me able to travel anywhere without being in any danger.” But that was only just as much as repeating lano’s theory back to him in different form, and he realized it after lano’s polite silence had extended too long to be anything but an answer in itself.

He tried to explain the concept “machine.”

“I’ll teach you a new word for a new thing,” he said. Iano nodded attentively.

Imbry switched off the translator, making sure Iano saw the motion and understood the result. Then he repeated “machine” several times, and, once Iano had accustomed himself to Imbry’s new voice, which up to now he’d only heard as an indistinct background murmur to the translator’s speaker, the head man picked it up quickly.