Terrestrials' way of reproductiondoesn'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 thelimits of propriety, but unable to let him get away with that. "I hopeto be a wife and mother some day," she added, "and I only hope that whenthat time comes, I'll be able to lay good eggs."
"Miss Morfatch," Stet said, keeping control of his temper with a visibleeffort, "that will be enough from you. If common decency doesn'trestrain you, please remember that I am your employer and that _I_ setthe policies on _my_ paper. You'll do what you're told and keep a civiltongue in your head or you'll be sent back to Fizbus. Do I make myselfclear?"
"You do, indeed," Tarb said. How could she ever have thought he wascharming and handsome? Well, perhaps he still was handsome, but finefeathers do not make fine deeds. And, if it came to that, it wasn't hispaper.
"We have the same thing on Terra," Miss Snow murmured sympathetically toStet. "These young whippersnappers think they can start in running thepaper the very first day. Why, Belinda Romney herself--she's a distantcousin of mine, you know--told me--"
"Miss Snow," Tarb said, "I hope for the sake of Earth that you are not atypical example of the Terrestrial species."
"And you, hon," Miss Snow retorted, "don't belong on a paper, but in achicken coop."
"Ladies!" Stet said helplessly. "Women," he muttered, "certainly do notbelong on a newspaper. Matter of fact, they don't belong anywhere; theirplace 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 alsolearned to operate a Terrestrial typewriter equipped with Fizbiantype--mostly so that she could dispense with the services of theinvaluable Miss Snow. She didn't like typing, though--it chipped hertoenails and her temper. Besides, Drosmig kept complaining that thenoise prevented him from sleeping and she preferred him to sleep ratherthan hang there making irrelevant and, sometimes, unpleasantly relevantremarks.
"Longing for the old scripto, eh?" one of the cameramen smiled as helounged in the open doorway of her office. Although she was fond offresh air, Tarb realized that she would have to keep the door shut fromnow on. Too many of the younger members of the staff kept booing at heras they passed, and now they had formed the habit of dropping in tooffer her advice, encouragement and invitations to meals. At first, theattention 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 dietrying.
"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 toconvert Earth power. Could be done all right, but he and the consul haveit all fixed up to keep Fizbian technology off the planet. Consul'sprobably being paid off by the International Association ofManufacturers and Stet's in it for the preservation of indigenousculture--and maybe a little cash, too. After all, those rare antiquecollections of his cost money."
"I don't believe it!" Tarb snapped. "Griblo, please--I have so much workto get through!"
"Okay, chick, but I warn you, you're going to have your bright-eyedillusions shattered. Why don't you wake up to the truth aboutStet? What you should do is maybe eschew the society of all journalistsentirely, and a sordid lot they are, and devote yourself tophotographers--splendid fellows, all."
"Please shut the door behind you!"
The door slammed.
Tarb gazed disconsolately at the letter before her. Would she ever beable to answer letters to Stet's satisfaction? The purpose of the wholecolumn was service--but did she and Stet mean the same thing by the sameword? Or, if they did, whom was Stet serving?
She was paying too much attention to Griblo's idle remarks. Obviously hewas a sorehead--had some kind of grudge against Stet. Perhaps Stet was abit too autocratic, perhaps he had even gone native to some extent, butyou couldn't say anything worse about him than that. All in all, hewasn't a bad bird and she mustn't let herself be influenced byrumormongers like Griblo.
* * * * *
Tarb got up and took the letter to Stet. He was in his office dictatingto Miss Snow. _After all_, Tarb could not repress the ugly thought, _whyshould he care about the scriptos? He'll never have to use atypewriter._
And he was perfectly nice about being interrupted. The only thing hedidn't like was being contradicted. _I'm getting bitter_, she toldherself in surprise. _And at my age, too. I wonder what I'll be likewhen I'm old._
This thought alarmed her and so she smiled very sweetly at Stet as shemurmured, "Would you mind reading this?" and gave him the letter.
"Run into another little snag, eh?" he said affably, giving her foot agentle 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 Ingeborg Swedenborg!"_
_I cannot help myself. I rush to the doorway. There, behold, the incomparable Ingeborg herself! She follows the headwaiter to a choice table. She is even more ravishing in real life than on the screen. On her, it does not matter that she has no feathers save on the head--even skin looks good. Overcome by involuntary ardor, I boo at her. Whereupon I am violently assailed by a powerfully built native whom I have not previously noticed to be escorting her._
_I am rescued before he can do me any permanent damage, though, if you wish the truth, it will be a long time before I can fly again. However, I am given notice by the cold-hearted management. Now I am without a job. And what is more, if on this planet one is not permitted to express one's instinctive and natural admiration for a beautiful woman, then all I have to say is that it is a lousy planet and I wiggle my toes at it. How do I go about getting deported?_
_Impatiently yours,_
_Rajois Sludd_
"Oh, I suppose it serves him right," Tarb said quickly, before Stetcould comment, "but don't you think it would be a good idea if the_Times_ got up a Fizbian-Terrestrial handbook of its own? It's the onlysolution that I can see. The regular one, I recognize now, is more thaninadequate, with all that spiritual gup--" Miss Snow drew in her breathsharply--"and not much else. All these problems are bound to arise againand again. Frankly speaking, Stet, your solutions only take care of theindividual cases; they don't establish a sound intercultural basis."
He grunted.
"What's more," she went on eagerly, "we could not only give copies toevery Fizbian planning to visit Earth, but also print copies in Terranfor Terrestrials who are interested in learning more about Fizbus andthe Fizbians. In fact, all Terrans who come in contact with us shouldhave the book. It would help both races to understand each other so muchbetter and--"
"Unnecessary!" Stet snapped, so violently that she stopped with hermouth open. "The standard handbook is more than adequate. Whateverlimitations it may have are deliberate. Setting down in cold print allthat ... stuff you w
ant to have included would make a point of things weprefer not to stress. I wouldn't want to have the Terrestrials humor meas if I were a fledgling or a foreigner."
He leaped out of his chair and paced up and down the office. One wouldthink he had forgotten he ever could fly.
"But you are a foreigner, Stet," Tarb said gently. "No matter what youdo or say, Terrestrials and Fizbians are--well, worlds apart."
"Spiritually, I am much closer to the Terrestrials than--but youwouldn't understand." He and Miss Snow nodded sympathetically at eachother. "And you might