She was able to catch enough of what he said next in Terran to
understand that she was being formally introduced to the aboriginal
journalists. Although you could never call the natives attractive, with
their squat figures and curiously atrophied vestigial wings--_arms_, she
reminded herself--they were very Fizboid in appearance and, with their
winglessness cloaked, could have creditably passed for singed Fizbians.
Moreover, they seemed friendly; at any rate, the sounds they uttered
were welcoming. She began to make the three ritual _entrechats_, but
Stat stopped her. "Just smile at them; that'll be enough."
It didn't seem like enough, but he was the boss.
* * * * *
"Thank the stars we're through with that," he sighed, as they finally
were able to escape their confreres and get into the taxi. "I suppose,"
he added, wriggling inside the clumsy Terrestrial jacket which, cut to
fit over his wings, did nothing either to improve his figure or to make
him look like a native, "it was as much of an ordeal for you as for me."
"Well, I am a little bewildered by it all," Tarb admitted, settling
herself as comfortably as possible on the seat cushions.
"No, don't do that!" he cried. "Here people don't crouch on seats. They
sit," he explained in a kindlier tone. "Like this."
"You mean I have to bend myself in that clumsy way?"