There are several things it wants to say, despite the fact that this conversation is already longer than it can ordinarily tolerate. It wants its own humans, its own crappy galaxy, things it understands. It doesn't know how to tell this forlorn god-human that his little jars of nutrient goop are the least depressing thing it's seen in days. It keeps thinking of the shipful of indentured workers and how little it could do for them.

It steadfastly doesn't think of dark, silent tunnels or rows of empty cubicles.

Finally, after nearly thirty seconds, it says quietly, "It matters that you're trying, though."