"Ohhh," the female gasped, "isn't he _cute_!"
The President and Narli stared at her in consternation. She looked
abashed for a moment, then smiled widely at Narli and the press
photographers.
"Welcome to Earth, dear Professor Gzann!" she exclaimed, mispronouncing
his name, of course. Bending down, she kissed him right upon his fuzzy
forehead.
Kissing was not a Saturnian practice, nor did Narli approve of it;
however, he had read enough about Earth to know that Europeans sometimes
greeted dignitaries in this peculiar way. Only this place, he had been
given to understand, was not Europe but America.
[Illustration]
"I am having a cocktail party in your honor this afternoon!" she beamed,
smoothing her flowered print dress down over her girdle. "You'll be
there at five sharp, won't you, dear?"
"Delighted," he promised dismally. He could hardly plead a previous
engagement a moment after arriving.
"I've tried to get all the things you like to eat," she went on
anxiously, "but you will tell me if there's anything special, won't
you?"
"I am on a diet," he said. He must be strong. Probably the food would be
repulsive anyhow, so he'd have no difficulty controlling his appetite.
"Digestive disorders, you know. A glass of Vichy and a biscuit will
be...."
He stopped, for there were tears in Mrs. Purrington's eyes. "Your tummy
hurts? Oh, you poor little darling!"
"Gladys!" the President said sharply.
There were frismil nuts at Mrs. Purrington's cocktail party and vilbar
and even slipnis broogs ... all imported at fabulous expense, Narli
knew, but then this was a government affair and expense means nothing to
a government since, as far as it is concerned, money grows on taxpayers.
Some of the native foods proved surprisingly palatable, too--pâté de
foie gras and champagne and little puff pastries full of delightful
surprises. Narli was afraid he was making a zloogle of himself. However,
he thought, trying not to catch sight of his own portly person in the
mirrors that walled the room, the lean days were just ahead.
Besides, what could he do when everyone insisted on pressing food on
him? "Try this, Professor Gzann." "Do try that, Professor Gzann."
("Doesn't he look cunning in his little dress suit?") They crowded
around him. The women cooed, the men beamed, and Narli ate. He would be
glad when he could detach himself from all this cloying diplomacy and
get back to the healthy rancor of the classroom.
* * * * *
At school, the odor of chalk dust, ink and rotting apple cores was
enough like its Saturnian equivalent to make Narli feel at home
immediately. The students would dislike him on sight, he knew. It is in
the nature of the young to be hostile toward whatever is strange and
alien. They would despise him and jeer at him, and he, in his turn,
would give them long, involved homework assignments and such difficult
examinations that they would fail....
Narli waddled briskly up to his desk which had, he saw, been scaled down
to Saturnian size, whereas he had envisioned himself struggling
triumphantly with ordinary Earth-sized, furniture. But the atmosphere
was as hot and sticky and intolerable as he had expected. Panting as
unobtrusively as possible, he rapped with his pointer. "Attention,
students!"
Now should come the derisive babble ... but there was a respectful
silence, broken suddenly by a shrill feminine whisper of, "Oooo, he's so
adorable!" followed by the harsh, "Shhh, Ava! You'll embarrass the poor
little thing."
Narli's face swelled. "I am your new professor of Saturnian Studies.
Saturn, as you probably know, is a major planet. It is much larger and
more important than Earth, which is only a minor planet."
The students obediently took this down in their notebooks. They
carefully took down everything he said. Even a bout of coughing that
afflicted him half-way through seemed to be getting a phonetic
transcription. From time to time, they would interrupt his lecture with
questions so pertinent, so well-thought out and so courteous that all he
could do was answer them.
His antennae lifted to catch the whispers that from time to time were
exchanged between even the best-behaved of the students. "Isn't he
precious?" "Seems like a nice fellow--sound grasp of his subject."
"Sweet little thing!" "Unusually interesting presentation." "Doesn't he
remind you of Winnie the Pooh?" "Able chap." "Just darling!"
After class, instead of rushing out of the room, they hovered around his
desk with intelligent, solicitous questions. Did he like Earth? Was his
desk too high? Too low? Didn't he find it hot with all that fur? Such
lovely, soft, fluffy fur, though. "Do you mind if I stroke one of your
paws--_hands_--Professor?" ("So cuddly-looking!")
He said yes, as a matter of fact, he was hot, and no, he didn't mind
being touched in a spirit of scientific investigation.
He had a moment of uplift at the teachers' cafeteria when he discovered
lunch to be virtually inedible. The manager, however, had been
distressed to see him pick at his food, and by dinner-time a
distinguished chef with an expert knowledge of Saturnian cuisine had
been rushed from Washington. Since the school food was inedible for all
intelligent life-forms, everyone ate the Saturnian dishes and praised
Narli as a public benefactor.
* * * * *
That night, alone in the quiet confines of his small room at the Men's
Faculty Club, Narli had spread out his notes and was about to start work
on his history when there was a knock at the door. He trotted over to
open it, grumbling to himself.
The head of his department smiled brightly down at him. "Some of us are
going out for a couple of drinks and a gabfest. Care to come along?"
Narli did not see how he could refuse and still carry the Saturnian's
burden, so he accepted. Discovering that gin fizzes and Alexanders were
even more palatable than champagne and more potent than vilbar, he told
several Saturnine locker-room stories which were hailed with loud
merriment. But he was being laughed _at_, not _with_, he knew. All this
false cordiality, he assured himself, would die down after a couple of
days, and then he would be able to get back to work. He must curb his
intellectual impatience.
In the morning, he found that enrollment in his classes had doubled, and
the room was crowded to capacity with the bright, shining, eager faces
of young Terrestrials athirst for learning. There were apples,
chocolates and imported frismil nuts on his desk, as well as a pressing
invitation from Mrs. Purrington for him to spend all his weekends and
holidays at the White House. The window was fitted with an
air-conditioning unit which, he later discovered, his classes had
chipped in to buy for him, and the temperature had been lowered to a
point where it was almost comfortable. All the students wore coats.
When he went out on the campus, women--students, teachers, even
strangers--stopped to talk to him, to exclaim over him, to touch him,
even to kiss him. Photographers were perpetually taking pictures, some
of which turned up in the Student Union as full-color postcards. They
sold like Lajl out of season.
Narli wrote in Saturnian on the back of one: "Having miserable time; be
glad you're not here," and sent it to Slood.
There were cocktail parties, musicales and balls in Narli's honor. When
he tried to refuse an invitation, he was accused of shyness and
virtually dragged to the affair by laughing members of the faculty. He
put on so much weight that he had to buy a complete new Terrestrial
outfit, which set him back a pretty penny. As a result, he had to
augment his income by lecturing to women's clubs. They slobbered
appallingly.
* * * * *
Narli's students did all their homework assiduously and, in fact, put in
more work than had been assigned. At the end of the year, not only did
all of them pass, but with flying colors.
"I hope you'll remember, Professor Gzann," the President of the
University said, "that there will always be a job waiting for you
here--a non-exchange professorship. Love to have you."
"Thank you," Narli replied politely.
Mrs. Purrington broke into loud sobs when he told her he was leaving
Earth. "Oh, I'll miss you so, Narli! You will write, won't you?"
"Yes, of course," he said grimly. That made two hundred and eighteen
people to whom he'd had to promise to write.
It was fortunate he was traveling as a guest of the North American
government, he thought as he supervised the loading of his matched
interplanetary luggage; his eight steamer baskets; his leather-bound
_Encyclopedia Terrestria_, with his name imprinted in gold on each
volume; his Indian war-bonnet; his oil painting of the President; and
his six cases of champagne--all parting gifts--onto the liner. Otherwise
the fee for excess luggage would take what little remained of his bank
account. There had been so many expenses--clothes and hostess gifts and
ice.
Not all his mementoes were in his luggage. A new rare-metal watch
gleamed on each of his four furry wrists; a brand-new trobskin wallet,
platinum key-chain, and uranium fountain pen were in his pocket; and a
diamond and curium bauble clasped a tie lovingly handpainted by a female
student. The argyles on his fuzzy ankles had been knitted by another.
Still another devoted pupil had presented him with a hand-woven plastic
case full of frismil nuts to eat on the way back.
* * * * *
"Well, Narli!" Slood said, his face swelling with joy. "Well, well!
You've put on weight, I see."
Narli dropped into his old chair with a sigh. Surely Slood might have
picked something else to comment on first--his haggardness, for
instance, or the increased spirituality of his expression.
"Nothing else to do on Earth in your leisure moments but eat, I
suppose," Slood said, pushing over the nut tray. "Even their food. Have
some frismils."
"No, thank you," Narli replied coldly.
Slood looked at him in distress. "Oh, how you must have suffered! Was it
very, very bad, Narli?"