Trimmer was small and middle-aged, with thin shoulders and a paunch. He
carried himself with a hell-raising swagger, left over from a time
twenty years gone. His skin had the waxy look of lost floridity, his
tuft of white hair was coarse and thin, his eyelids hung in the off-side
droop that amateur physiognomists like to associate with guile.
"I'm Resident Director of the Import-Export Bank," said Trimmer. "Heard
you were here and thought I'd pay my respects."
"I suppose you don't see many strangers."
"Not too many--there's nothing much to bring 'em. Cirgamesç isn't a
comfortable tourist planet. Too confined, shut in. A man with a
sensitive psyche goes nuts pretty easy here."
"Yeah," said Murphy. "I was thinking the same thing this morning. That
dome begins to give a man the willies. How do the natives stand it? Or
do they?"
Trimmer pulled out a cigar case. Murphy refused the offer.
"Local tobacco," said Trimmer. "Very good." He lit up thoughtfully.
"Well, you might say that the Cirgameski are schizophrenic. They've got
the docile Javanese blood, plus the Arabian élan. The Javanese part is
on top, but every once in a while you see a flash of arrogance.... You
never know. I've been out here nine years and I'm still a stranger." He
puffed on his cigar, studied Murphy with his careful eyes. "You work for
_Know Your Universe!_, I hear."
"Yeah. I'm one of the leg men."
"Must be a great job."
"A man sees a lot of the galaxy, and he runs into queer tales, like this
sjambak stuff."
Trimmer nodded without surprise. "My advice to you, Murphy, is lay off
the sjambaks. They're not healthy around here."
Murphy was startled by the bluntness. "What's the big mystery about
these sjambaks?"