the
“Uh—that would depend on nationality, sir,” murmured Pok. “The true-human foreigners often like to visit the Wanderer, an establishment which caters to their business. The evolved-human and the nonhuman visitors like to frequent The Court of Kings—a rather, uh, peculiar place.” He looked at Roki, doubtfully, as if wondering about his biological status.
“Which is most expensive?” he asked, although he really didn’t care. Because of the phony “observation mission papers,” he could make Colonel Beth foot the bill.
“The Court of Kings is rather high,” Pok said. “But so is the Wanderer.”
“Such impartiality deserves a return. We will visit them both, E Pok. If it suits you.”
“I am your servant, E Roki.”
How to identify a Solarian without asking?—Roki wondered as they sat sipping a sticky, yeasty drink in the lounge of the Wanderer. The dimly lighted room was filled with men of all races—pygmies, giants, black, red, and brown. All appeared human, or nearly so. There were a few women among the crewmen, and most of them removed their borrowed veils while in the tolerant sanctuary of the Wanderer. The Tragorian staff kept stealing furtive glances at these out-system females, and the Cophian wondered about their covetousness.
“Why do you keep watching the strange women, E Pok?” he asked the interpreter a few minutes later.
The small man sighed. “Evidently you have not yet seen Tragorian women.”
Roki had seen a few heavily draped figures on the street outside, clinging tightly to the arms of men, but there hadn’t been much to look at. Still, Pok’s hint was enough to give him an idea.
“You don’t mean Tragor III is one of those places where evolution has pushed the sexes further apart?”
“I do,” Pok said sadly. “The feminine I.Q. is seldom higher than sixty, the height is seldom taller than your jacket pocket, and the weight is usually greater than your own. As one traveler put it: ‘short, dumpy, and dumb’. Hence, the Purdah.”
“Because you don’t like looking at them?”
“Not at all. Theirs is our standard of beauty. The purdah is because they are frequently too stupid to remember which man is their husband.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“Not at all,” said Pok, whose tongue was being loosened by the yeasty brew. “It is our tragedy. We can bear it.”
“Well, you’ve got it better than some planets. On Jevah, for instance, the men evolved into sluggish spidery little fellows, and the women are big husky brawlers.”
“Ah yes. But Sol is the most peculiar of all, is it not?” said Pok.
“How do you mean?” Roki carefully controlled his voice and tried to look bored.
“Why, the Vamir, of course.”
Because of the fact that Pok’s
The small man was obviously not anxious to go. He murmured about ugly brutes, lingered over his drink, and gazed wistfully at a big dusky Sanbe woman. “Do you suppose she would notice me if I spoke to her?” the small interpreter asked.
“Probably. So would her five husbands. Let’s go.” Pok sighed mournfully and came with him.
The Court of Kings catered to a peculiar clientele indeed; but not a one, so far as Roki could see, was completely inhuman. There seemed to be at least one common denominator to all intelligent life: it was bipedal and bimanual. Four legs was the most practical number for any animal on any planet, and it seemed that nature had nothing else to work with. When she decided to give intelligence to a species, she taught him to stand on his hind legs, freeing his forefeet to become tools of his intellect. And she usually taught him by making him use his hands to climb. As a Cophian biologist had said, “Life first tries to climb a tree to get to the stars. When it fails, it comes down and invents the high-C drive.”
Again, Roki looked around for something that might he a Solarian. He saw several familiar species, some horned, some tailed, scaled, or heavily furred. Some stumbled and drooped as if Tragorian gravity weighted them down. Others bounced about as if floating free in space. One small creature, the native of a planet with an eight- hour rotational period, curled up on the table and fell asleep. Roki guessed that ninety per cent of the customers were of human ancestry, for at one time during the history of the galaxy, Man had sprung forth like a sudden blossom to inherit most of space. Some said they came from Sol III, but there was no positive evidence.
As if echoing his thoughts, Pok suddenly grunted, “I will never believe we are descended from those surly creatures.”
Roki looked up quickly, wondering if the small interpreter was telepathic. But Pok was sneering toward the doorway. The Cophian followed his tipsy gaze and saw a man enter. The man was distinguished only by his height and by the fact that he appeared more human, in the classical sense, than most of the other customers. He wore a uniform—maroon jacket and gray trousers—and it matched the ones Roki had seen from a distance at the spaceport.
So this was a Solarian. He stared hard, trying to take in much at once. The man wore a short beard, but there seemed to be something peculiar about the jaw. It was—predatory, perhaps. The skull was massive, but plump and rounded like a baby’s, and covered with sparse yellow fur. The eyes were quick and sharp, and seemed almost to leap about the room. He was at least seven feet tall, and there was a look of savagery about him that caused the Cophian to tense, as if sensing an adversary.
“What is it you don’t like about them?” he asked, without taking his eyes from the Solarian.
“Their sharp ears for one thing,” whispered Pok as the Solarian whirled to stare toward their table. “Their nasty tempers for another.”
“Ah? Rage reactions show biologic weakness,” said the Cophian in a mild tone, but as loud as the first time.
The Solarian, who had been waiting for a seat at tip bar, turned and stalked straight toward them. Pok whimpered. Roki stared at him cooly. The Solarian loomed over them and glared from one to the other. He seemed to decide that Pok was properly cowed, and he turned his fierce eyes on the ex-patrolman.
“Would you like to discuss biology, manthing?” he growled like distant thunder. His speaking exposed his teeth—huge white chisels of heavy ivory. They were not regressed toward the fanged stage, but they suggested, together with the massive jaw, that nature might be working toward an efficient bone-crusher.
Roki swirled his drink thoughtfully. “I don’t know you, Bristleface,” he murmured. “But if your biology bothers you, I’d be glad to discuss it with you.”
He watched carefully for the reaction. The Solarian went gray-purple. His eyes danced with fire, and his slit mouth quivered as if to bare the strong teeth. Just as he seemed about to explode, the anger faded—or rather, settled in upon itself to brood. “This is beneath me,” the eyes seemed to be saying. Then he laughed cordially.
“My apologies. I thought to share a table with you.”
“Help yourself.”
The Solarian paused. “Where are you from, manthing?”
Roki also paused. They might have heard that a Cophian commander blasted one of their ships. Still he didn’t care to be caught in a lie. “Sixty-Star Cluster,” he grunted.
“Which sun?” The Solarian’s voice suggested that he was accustomed to being answered instantly.
Roki glowered at him. “Information for information, fellow. And I don’t talk to people who stand over me.” He pointedly turned to Pok. “As we were saying—”
“I am of Sol,” growled the big one.
“Fair enough. I am of Coph.”
The giant’s brows lifted slightly. “Ah, yes.” He inspected Roki curiously and sat down. The chair creaked a warning. “Perhaps that explains it.”
“Explains what?” Roki frowned ominously. He disliked overbearing men, and his hackles were rising. There was something about this fellow—
“I understand that Cophians are given to a certain ruthlessness.”
