"Sounds like one of them damn hick towns in California," said Smokey,
the gambler.
Toryl, somewhat deflated, but by no means defeated, hastened to
elucidate. "Capella is lo-cat-ed in the con-stell-a-tion which you call
Auriga."
"Anybody know what the hell he's talking about?" asked the annoyed
saloonkeeper.
Toryl and Sartan exchanged troubled glances. Sartan took up the cudgel.
"Auriga is a constellation, a star cluster, sir. It is forty-two million
light years away."
"What in tarnation is a light year?" asked an old-timer in the group.
Another replied, "They must be from Alaska. They got light years up
there, sometimes stays light the whole confounded year 'round."
"That must be it," agreed Okie, "and that's why they're wearin' them
crazy suits." The saloonkeeper unloosed a grim laugh. "You can take them
arctic pajamas off now, boys. Weather's kinda warm in these parts!"
"Hey, fellas!" a voice shot out, "didya bring any Eskimo babes down with
you?"
* * * * *
The crowd roared approval at the witticism.
Toryl transmitted a depressing thought to his companion. "_I fear they
do not believe us, Sartan._"
Sartan did not get the opportunity to answer immediately.
"Listen, you guys," Okie pounded his fat finger into Sartan's chest. "I
want you to behave yourselves, understand? Now that means lay off the
customers while they're at the games. You wanna gamble there is plenty
of machines available. I got a respectable place, I wanna keep it that
way!" He turned and addressed the other men. "All right, boys, fun's
over! No fight today! Drink up and gamble your money away. Let's get
back to the games."
* * * * *
It was necessary for Toryl to use the crypterpreter to translate the
various signs along the bar. Okie saw the small cylindrical machine
sitting on the bar. His curiosity bested him. He gave it a more thorough
examination than a dog gives a fireplug.
Some of the signs read: "DOUBLE BOURBON--$2.10" "COOL GIN RICKEY--$1.25"
"IN GOD WE TRUST, BUT NOBODY ELSE!" "RUM COLLINS--$1" "A FRIEND IN NEED
IS A FRIEND INDEED" "NO INDIANS SERVED HERE" and "SCOTCH--IMPORTED,
$1.50--DOMESTIC, $1.30."
"Cool gin rick-ey," said Toryl.
"Comin' right up," Okie mumbled, his attention still wrapped around the
crypterpreter. "Say, what is this gadget anyway?"
"It is a cryp-terp-reter," Toryl beamed with pride. "It en-ables us to
un-der-stand and speak your lan-guage."
"Aw, go on!" Okie managed a fainthearted grin, uncertain of whether his
leg was being pulled. "Come on now, tell me what it is."
"But I have just told you, sir."