extrasolar eggs. I have tried to explain to them that it is not at all a question of importation but of adoption; however, they cannot or will not understand.
Please tell me what to do. I fear that they may not be keeping the egg at the correct Fizbian freezing point —which, as you know, is a good deal lower than Earth’s. The fledgling may hatch by itself and receive a traumatic shock that might very well damage its entire psyche permanently.
Frantically yours,
Glibmus Gluyt
“Oh, for the stars’ sake!” Stet exploded. “This is really too much! Viz our consul, Miss Snow. That egg must go back to Fizbus at once, before any Terrestrials hear of it! And I must notify the government back on the Home Planet to keep a close check on all egg shipments. Something like this must certainly not occur again.”
“Why shouldn’t the Terrestrials hear of it?” Tarb asked, outraged. “And I think it’s mean of you to send back a poor little orphan egg like that when it has a chance of getting a good home.”
“An egg!” Miss Snow repeated incredulously. “You mean you really…?” She gave me one mad little hoot of laughter and then stopped and strangled slightly. Her face turned purple in her efforts to restrain mirth. Really, Tarb thought, she looks so much better that color.
Stet’s crest twitched violently. “I hope—” he began. “I do hope you will keep this… knowledge to yourself, Miss Snow.”
“But of course,” she assured him, calming down. “I’m dreadfully sorry I was so rude. Naturally I wouldn’t dream of telling a soul, Mr. Zarnon. You can trust me.”
“I’m sure I can, Miss Snow.”
Tarb almost choked with indignation. “You mean you’ve been keeping the facts of our life from Terrestrials? As if they were fledglings… no, even fledglings are told these days.”
“One could hardly blame him for it, Miss Morfatch,” Miss Snow said. “You wouldn’t want people to know that Fizbians laid eggs, would you?”
“And why not?”
“Tarb,” Stet intervened, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don’t I? You’re ashamed of the fact that we bear our children in a clean, decent, honorable way instead of—” She stopped. “I’m being as bad as you two are. Probably the Terrestrials’ way of reproduction doesn’t seem dirty to them—but, since they do reproduce that way, they could scarcely find our way objectionable!”
“Tarb, that’s not how a young girl should talk!”
“Oh, go lay an egg!” she said, knowing that she had overstepped the limits of propriety, but unable to let him get away with that. “I hope to be a wife and mother some day,” she added, “and I only hope that when that time comes, I’ll be able to lay good eggs.”
“Miss Morfatch,” Stet said, keeping control of his temper with a visible effort, “that will be enough from you. If common decency doesn’t restrain you, please remember that I am your employer and that I set the policies on my paper. You’ll do what you’re told and keep a civil tongue in your head or you’ll be sent back to Fizbus. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do, indeed,” Tarb said. How could she ever have thought he was charming and handsome? Well, perhaps he still was handsome, but fine feathers do not make fine deeds. And, if it came to that, it wasn’t his paper.
“We have the same thing on Terra,” Miss Snow murmured sympathetically to Stet. “These young whippersnappers think they can start in running the paper the very first day. Why, Belinda Romney herself—she’s a distant cousin of mine, you know—told me—”
“Miss Snow,” Tarb said, “I hope for the sake of Earth that you are not a typical example of the Terrestrial species.”
“And you, hon,” Miss Snow retorted, “don’t belong on a paper, but in a chicken coop.”
“Ladies!” Stet said helplessly. “Women,” he muttered, “certainly do not belong on a newspaper. Matter of fact, they don’t belong anywhere; their place is in the home only because there’s nowhere else to put them.”
Both females glared at him.
During the next fortnight, Tarb gained fluency in Terran and also learned to operate a Terrestrial typewriter equipped with Fizbian type—mostly so that she could dispense with the services of the invaluable Miss Snow. She didn’t like typing, though—it chipped her toenails and her temper. Besides, Drosmig kept complaining that the noise prevented him from sleeping and she preferred him to sleep rather than hang there making irrelevant and, sometimes, unpleasantly relevant remarks.
“Longing for the old scripto, eh?” one of the cameramen smiled as he lounged in the open doorway of her office. Although she was fond of fresh air, Tarb realized that she would have to keep the door shut from now on. Too many of the younger members of the staff kept booing at her as they passed, and now they had formed the habit of dropping in to offer her advice, encouragement and invitations to meals. At first, the attention had pleased her—but now she was much too busy to be bothered; she was going to turn out acceptable answers to those letters or die trying.
“Well, if the power can’t be converted, it can’t,” she said grimly. “Griblo, I do wish you’d be a dear and flutter off. I—”
He snorted. “Who says the power can’t be converted? Stet, huh?”
She took her feet off the keys and looked at him. “Why do you say ‘Stet’ that way?”
“Because that’s a lot of birdseed he gives you about not being able to convert Earth power. Could be done all right, but he and the consul have it all fixed up to keep Fizbian technology off the planet. Consul’s probably being paid off by the International Association of Manufacturers and Stet’s in it for the preservation of indigenous culture—and maybe a little cash, too. After all, those rare antique collections of his cost money.”
“I don’t believe it!” Tarb snapped. “Griblo, please—I have so much work to get through!”
“Okay, chick, but I warn you, you’re going to have your bright-eyed illusions shattered. Why don’t you wake up to the truth about Stet? What you should do is maybe eschew the society of all journalists entirely, and a sordid lot they are, and devote yourself to photographers—splendid fellows, all.”
“Please shut the door behind you!”
The door slammed.
Tarb gazed disconsolately at the letter before her. Would she ever be able to answer letters to Stet’s satisfaction? The purpose of the whole column was service—but did she and Stet mean the same thing by the same word? Or, if they did, whom was Stet serving?
She was paying too much attention to Griblo’s idle remarks. Obviously he was a sorehead—had some kind of grudge against Stet. Perhaps Stet was a bit too autocratic, perhaps he had even gone native to some extent, but you couldn’t say anything worse about him than that. All in all, he wasn’t a bad bird and she mustn’t let herself be influenced by rumormongers like Griblo.
Tarb got up and took the letter to Stet. He was in his office dictating to Miss Snow. After all, Tarb could not repress the ugly thought, why should he care about the scriptos? He’ll never have to use a typewriter.
And he was perfectly nice about being interrupted. The only thing he didn’t like was being contradicted. I’m getting bitter, she told herself in surprise. And at my age, too. I wonder what I’ll be like when I’m old.
This thought alarmed her and so she smiled very sweetly at Stet as she murmured, “Would you mind reading this?” and gave him the letter.
“Run into another little snag, eh?” he said affably, giving her foot a gentle pat with his. “Well, let’s see what we can do about it.”
Montreal
Dear Senbot Drosmig:
I am a chef at the Cafe Inter-stellaire, which, as everyone knows, is one of the most chic eating establishments on this not very chic planet. During my spare moments, I am a great amateur of the local form of entertainment known as television. I am especially fascinated by the native actress Ingeborg Swedenborg, who, in spite of being a Terran, compares most favorably with our own Fizbian footlight favorites.
The other day, while I am in the kitchen engaged in preparing the ragout celeste a la fizbe for which I am justly celebrated on nine planets, I hear a stir outside in the dining room. I strain my ears. I hear the cry, “It is
