the assistants. Tragor III evidently had an exceedingly dusty atmosphere.
The captain nodded a greeting and requested the ship’s flight papers. He glanced at the pink pre-flight, clucked to himself, and read every word in the dispatcher’s forms. “Observation flight? To Sol?” He addressed himself to Roki, using the interstellar Esperanto.
The girl answered. “That’s right. Let’s get this over with.”
The captain gave her a searing, head-to toe glance. “Are you the ship’s owner, woman?”
Daleth Incorporated contained her anger with an effort. “I am.”
The captain told her what a Tragorian thought of it by turning aside from her, and continuing to address Roki as if he were ship’s skipper. “Please leave the ship while we fumigate and inspect. Wohr will make you comfortable in the patrol vessel. You will have to submit to physical examination—a contagion precaution.”
Roki nodded, and they started out after the assistant. As they entered the corridor, he grinned at Daleth, and received a savage kick in the shin for his trouble.
“Oops, sorry!” she muttered.
“Oh—one moment, sir,” the captain called after them. “May I speak to you a moment—”
They both stopped and turned.
“Privately,” the captain added.
The girl marched angrily on. Roki stepped back in the cabin and nodded.
“You are a well-traveled man, E Roki?” the bushybrowed man asked politely.
“Space has been my business.”
“Then you need no warning about local customs.” The captain bowed.
“I know enough to respect them and conform to them,” Roki assured him. “That’s a general rule. But I’m not familiar with Tragor III. Is there anything special I should know before we start out?”
“Your woman, E Roki. You might do well to inform her that she will have to wear a veil, speak to no man, and be escorted upon the streets at all times. Otherwise, she will be wise to remain on the ship, in her quarters.”
Roki suppressed a grin. “I shall try to insure her good behavior.”
The captain looked defensive. “You regard our customs as primitive?”
“Every society to its own tastes, captain. The wisdom of one society would be folly for another. Who is qualified to judge? Only the universe, which passes the judgment of survival on all peoples.”
“Thank you. You are a wise traveler. I might explain that our purdah is the result of an evolutionary peculiarity. You will see for yourself, however.”
“I can’t
Roki was grinning broadly as he went to the patrol vessel to wait. One thing was certain: the girl would have a rough time on Tragor if she tried to have him jailed for mutiny.
Her face reddened to forge-heat as he relayed the captain’s warning.
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” she said stiffly.
Roki shrugged. “You know enough to respect local customs.”
“Not when they’re personally humiliating!” She curled up on a padded seat in the visitor’s room and began to pout. He decided to drop the subject.
Repairing the synchronizers promised to be a week-long job, according to the Tragorian inspector who accompanied the
“Any chance of rushing the job?”
“A week is rushing it.”
“All right, we’ll have to wait.” Roki nudged the controls a bit, guiding the ship toward the landing site pointed out by the captain. Daleth was in her cabin, alone, to save herself embarrassment.
“May I ask a question about your mission, E Roki, or is it confidential in nature?”
Roki paused to think before answering. He would have to lie, of course, but he had to make it safe. Suddenly he chuckled. “I forgot for a moment that you weren’t with Sixty-Star Cluster. So I’ll tell you the truth. This is supposed to be an observation mission, officially—but actually, our superior sent us to buy him a holdful of a certain scarce commodity.”
The captain grinned. Graft and corruption were apparently not entirely foreign to Tragor III. But then his grin faded into thoughtfulness. “On Sol’s planets?”
Roki nodded.
“This scarce commodity—if I’m not too curious—is it surgibank supplies?”
Roki felt his face twitch with surprise. But he recovered from his shock in an instant. “Perhaps,” he said calmly. He wanted to grab the man by the shoulders and shout a thousand questions, but he said nothing else.
The official squirmed in his seat for a time. “Does your federation buy many mercy cargoes from Sol?”
Roki glanced at him curiously. The captain was brimming with ill-concealed curiosity. Why?
“Occasionally, yes.”
The captain chewed his lip for a moment. “Tell me,” he blurted, “will the Solarian ships stop for your patrol inspections?”
Roki hesitated for a long time. Then he said, “I suppose that you and I could get together and share what we know about Sol without revealing any secrets of our own governments. Frankly, I, too, am curious about Sol.”
The official, whose name was WeJan, was eager to accept. He scrawled a peculiar series of lines on a scrap of paper and gave it to Roki. “Show this to a heliocab driver. He will take you to my apartment. Would dinner be convenient?”
Roki said that it would.
The girl remained in her quarters when they landed. Roki knocked at the door, but she was either stubborn or asleep. He left the ship and stood for a moment on the ramp, staring at the hazy violet sky. Fine grit sifted against his face and stung his eyes.
“You will be provided goggles, suitable clothing, and an interpreter to accompany you during your stay,” said WeJan as they started toward a low building.
But Roki was scarcely listening as he stared across the ramp. A thousand yards away was a yellow-starred mercy ship, bearing Solar markings. The most peculiar thing about it was the ring of guards that surrounded it.
WeJan saw him looking. “Strange creatures, aren’t they?” he whispered confidentially.
Roki had decided that in the long run he could gain more information by pretending to know more than he did. So he nodded wisely and said nothing. The mercy ship was too far away for him to decide whether the guards were human. He could make out only that they were bipeds. “Sometimes one meets strange ones all right. Do you know the Quinjori—from the other side of the galaxy?”
“No—no, I believe not, E Roki. Quinjori?”
“Yes. A very curious folk. Very curious indeed.” He smiled to himself and fell silent. Perhaps, before his visit was over, he could trade fictions about the fictitious Quinjori for facts about the Solarians.
Roki met his interpreter in the spaceport offices, donned the loose garb of Tragor, and went to quibble with repair service. Still he could not shorten the promised time on the new synchros. They were obviously stuck for a week on Tragor. He thought of trying to approach the Solarian ship, but decided that it would be better to avoid suspicion.
Accompanied by the bandy-legged interpreter, whose mannerisms were those of a dog who had received too many beatings, Roki set out for Polarin, the Tragorian capital, a few miles away. His companion was a small middle-aged man with a piping voice and flaring ears; Roki decided that his real job was to watch his alien charge for suspicious activities, for the little man was no expert linguist. He spoke two or three of the tongues used in the Sixty-Star Cluster, but not fluently. The Cophian decided to rely on the Esperanto of space, and let the interpreter translate it into native Tragorian wherever necessary.
“How would E Roki care to amuse himself?” the little man asked. “A drink? A pretty girl? A museum?”
Roki chuckled. “What do most of your visitors do while they’re here?” He wondered quietly what, in particular,
