* * * * *
And now she--Tarb Morfatch--herself was going to be the guiding spirit
that brought enlightenment and uplift to countless thousands on Terra
and millions on Fizbus. Her name wouldn't appear on the columns, but the
reward of having helped should be enough. Besides, Drosmig was due to
retire soon. If she proved herself competent, she would take over the
column entirely and get the byline. Grupe had promised faithfully.
But what, she wondered, had put Drosmig "out of commission"?
The taxi drew up before a building with a vulgar number of floors
showing above ground.
"Ah--before we--er--meet the others," Stet suggested, twitching his
crest, "I was wondering whether you would care to--er--have dinner with
me tonight?"
This roused Tarb from her speculations. "Oh, I'd love to!" _A date with
the boss right away!_
Stet fumbled in his garments for appropriate tokens with which to pay
the driver. "You--you're not engaged or anything back Home, Miss
Morfatch?"
"Why, no," she said. "It so happens that I'm not."
"Splendid!" He made an abortive gesture with his leg, then let her get
out of the taxi by herself. "It makes the natives stare," he explained
abashedly.
"But why shouldn't they?" she asked, wondering whether to laugh or not.
"How could they help but stare? We are different." _He must be joking._
She ventured a smile.
He smiled back, but made no reply.
The pavement was hard under her thinly covered soles. Now that walking
looked as if it would present a problem, the ban on wing use loomed more
threateningly. She had, of course, walked before--on wet days when her
wings were waterlogged or in high winds or when she had surface
business. However, the sidewalks on Fizbus were soft and resilient. Now
she understood why the Terrestrials wore such crippling foot armor, but
that didn't make her feel any better about it.
A box-shaped machine took the two Fizbians up to the twentieth story in
twice the time it would have taken them to fly the same distance. Tarb
supposed that the offices were in an attic instead of a basement because
exchange difficulties forced the _Times_ to such economy. She wondered
ruefully whether her own expense account would also suffer.
But it was no time to worry about such sordid matters; most important
right now was making a favorable impression on her co-workers. She did
want them to like her.
Taking out her compact, she carefully polished her eyeballs. The man at
the controls of the machine practically performed a ritual _entrechat_.
"Don't do that!" Stet ordered in a harsh whisper.
"But why not?" she asked, unable to restrain a trace of belligerence
from her voice. He hadn't been very polite himself. "The handbook said
respectable Terran women make up in public. Why shouldn't I?"
He sighed. "It'll take time for you to catch on, I suppose. There's a
lot the handbook doesn't--can't--cover. You'll find the setup here
rather different from on Fizbus," he went on as he kicked open the door
neatly lettered _THE FIZBUS TIMES_ in both Fizbian and Terran. "We've
found it expedient to follow the local newspaper practice. For
instance--" he indicated a small green-feathered man seated at a desk
just beyond the railing that bisected the room horizontally--"we have a
Copy Editor."
"What does he do?" she asked, confused.
"He copies news from the other papers, of course."
"And what are _you_ doing tonight, Miss Morfatch?" the Copy Editor
asked, springing up from his desk to execute the three ritual entrechats
with somewhat more verve than was absolutely necessary.
"Having dinner with me," Stet said quickly.
"Pulling rank, eh, old bird? Well, we'll see whether position or
sterling worth will win out in the end."
As the rest of the staff crowded around Tarb, leaping and booing as
appreciatively as any girl could want, she managed to snatch a rapid
look around. The place wasn't really so very much different from a
Fizbian newsroom, once she got over the oddity of going across, not up
and down, with the desks--queerly shaped but undeniably desks--arranged
side by side instead of one over the other. There were chairs and
stools, no perches, but that was to be expected in a wingless society.
And it was noisy. Even though the little machines had stopped clattering
when she came in, a distant roaring continued, as if, concealed
somewhere close by, larger, more sinister machines continued their work.
A peculiar smell hung in the air--not unpleasant, exactly, but strange.
She sniffed inquiringly.
"Ink," Stet said.
"What's that?"
"Oh, some stuff the boys in the back shop use. The feature writers," he
went on quickly, before she could ask what the "back shop" was, "have
private offices where they can perch in comfort."
He led the way down a corridor, opening doors. "Our drama editor." He
indicated a middle-aged man with faded blue feathers, who hung head
downward from his perch. "On the lobster-trick last night writing a
review, so he's catching fifty-one twinkles now."
"Enchanted, Miss Morfatch," the critic said, opening one bright eye. "By
a curious chance, it so happens that tonight I have two tickets to--"
"Tonight she's going out with me."
"Well, I can get tickets to any play, any night. And you haven't laughed
unless you've seen a Terrestrial drama. Just say the word, chick."
Stet got Tarb out of the office and slammed the door shut. "Over here is
the office of our food editor," he said, breathing hard, "whom you'll be
expected to give a claw to now and then, since your jobs overlap. Can't
introduce you to him right now, though, because he's in the hospital
with ptomaine poisoning. And this is the office you'll share with
Drosmig."
Stet opened the door.
Underneath the perch, Senbot Drosmig, dean of Fizbian journalists, lay
on the rug in a sodden stupor, letters to the editor scattered thickly
over his shriveled person. The whole room reeked unmistakably of
caffeine.
Tarb shrank back and twined both feet around Stet's. This time he did
not repulse her. "But how can a--an educated, cultured man like Senbot
Drosmig sink to such depths?"
"It's hard for anyone with even the slightest inclination toward the
stuff to resist it here," Stet replied somberly. "I can't deny it; the
sale of caffeine is absolutely unrestricted on Earth. Coffee shops all
over the place. Coffee served freely at even the best homes. And not
only coffee ... caffeine is insiduously present in other of their
popular beverages."
Her eyes bulged sideways. "But how can a so-called civilized people be
so depraved?"
"Caffeine doesn't seem to affect them the way it does us. Their nervous
systems are so very uncomplicated, one almost envies them."
Drosmig stirred restlessly under his blanket of correspondence. "Go
back ... Fizbus," he muttered. "Warn you ... 'fore ... too late ... like
me."
Tarb's rose-pink feathers stood on end. She looked apprehensively at
Stet.
"Senbot can't go back because he's in no shape to take the interstel
drive." The young editor was obviously annoyed. "He's old and he's a
physical wreck. But that certainly doesn't apply to you, Miss Morfatch."
He looked long and hard into her eyes.
"Few years on planet," Drosmig groaned, struggling to his wings, "'ply
to anybody."
His feathers, Tarb noticed, were an ugly, darkish brown. She had never
seen any one that color before, but she'd heard rumors that too much
caffeine could do that to you. At least she hoped it was only the
caffeine.
"For your information, he was almost as bad as this when he came!" Stet
snapped. "Frankly, that's why he was sent here--to get rid of his
unfortunate addiction. Grupe had no idea, when he assigned him to Earth,
that there was caffeine on the planet."
The old man gave a sardonic laugh as he clumsily made his way to the
perch and gripped it with quivering toes.
"That is, I don't _think_ he knew," Stet said dubiously.
Tarb reached over and picked a letter off the floor. The Fizbian
characters were clumsy and ill-made, as if someone had formed them with
his feet. Could there be such poverty here that individuals existed who
could not afford a scripto? The letter didn't read like any that had
ever been printed in the column--at least none that had been picked up
in the Fizbus edition:
* * * * *
_New York_
_Dear Senbot Drosmig:_
_I am a subaltern clerk in the shipping department of the FizbEarth
Trading Company, Inc. Although I have held this post for only three
months, I have already won the respect and esteem of my superiors
through my diligence and good character. My habits are exemplary: I
do not gamble, sing, or take caffeine._
_Earlier today, while engaged in evening meditation at my modest
apartments, I was aroused by a peremptory knock at the door. I
flung it open. A native stood there with a small case in his hand._
_"Is the house on fire?" I asked, wondering which of my few humble
possessions I should rescue first._
_"No," he said. "I would like to interest you in some brushes."_
_"Are the offices of the FizbEarth Trading Company, Inc., on
fire?"_
_"Not to my knowledge," he replied, opening his case. "Now I have
here a very nice hairbrush--"_
_I wanted to give him every chance. "Have you come to tell me of
any disaster relative to the FizbEarth Trading Company, to myself,
or to anyone or anything else with whom or with which I am
connected?"_
_"Why, no," he said. "I have come to sell you brushes. Now here is
a little number I know you'll like. My company developed it with
you folks specially in mind. It's--"_
_"Do you know, sir, that you have wantonly interrupted me in the
midst of my meditations, which constitutes an established act of
privacy violation?"_
_"Is that a fact? Now this little item is particularly designed for
brushing the wings--"_
_At that point, I knocked him down and punched him into
insensibility with my feet. Then I summoned the police. To my
surprise, they arrested me instead of him._
_I am writing this letter from jail. I do not like to ask my
employers to get me out because, even though I am innocent, you
know how a thing like this can leave a smudge on the record._
_What shall I do?_
_Anxiously yours,_
_Fruzmus Bloxx_
* * * * *
"What should he do?" Tarb asked, handing Stet the paper. "Or is the
question academic by now? The letter's five days old."
Stet sighed. "I'll find out whether the consulate has been notified.
Native police usually do that, you know. Very thoughtful fellows. If
this Bloxx hasn't been bailed out already, I'll see that he is."
"But how will we answer his letter? Advise him to sue for false arrest?"
Stet smiled. "But he has no grounds for false arrest. He is guilty of
assault. The native was entirely within his rights in trying to sell him
a brush. Now--" he put out a foot--"brace yourself. Privacy violation is
not a crime on Terra. It is perfectly legal. In fact, it does not exist
as such!"
At that point, everything went maroon.
When Tarb came to, she found herself lying upon Drosmig's desk. A
skin-faced native woman was offering her water and clucking.
"Are you all right, Tarb--Miss Morfatch?" Stet demanded anxiously.
"Yes. I--I think so," she murmured, raising herself to a crouch.
"Better ... have died," Drosmig groaned from his perch. "Fate
worse ... death ... awaits you."
Tarb tried to smile. "Sorry to have been so much trouble." She stuck out
her tongue at both Stet and the native.
The woman drew in her breath.
"Miss Morfatch," Stet reminded Tarb, "sticking out the tongue is not an
apology on Terra; it is an insult. Fortunately, Miss Snow happens to be
perhaps the only Terran who would not be offended. She has become
thoroughly acquainted with us and our odd little customs. She even--" he
beamed at the Terran female--"has learned to speak our language."
"Hail to thee, O visitor from the stars," Miss Snow said in Fizbian.
"May thy sojourn upon Earth be an incessant delight and may peace and
plenty shower their gifts in abundance upon thee."
Tarb put her hand to her aching head. "I'm very glad to meet you," she
said, glad she did not have to get up to make the ritual _entrechats_.
"Miss Snow is my right foot," Stet said, "but I'm going to be noble and
let her act as your secretary until you can learn to operate a
typewriter."
"Secretary? Typewriter?"
"Well, you see, there are no scriptos or superscriptos on Earth and we
can't import any from Home because the natives--" Miss Snow
smiled--"don't have the right kind of power here to run psychic
installations. All prosifying has to be done directly on prosifying
machines or--" he paused--"by foot."
"Catch her!" Miss Snow exclaimed in Terran.
Everything had gone maroon for Tarb again. As she fell, she could hear a
sudden thump. It was, she later discovered, Drosmig falling off his
perch again--the result of insecure grip, she was given to understand,
rather than excessive empathy.
* * * * *
"I didn't mean, of course, to give you the impression that we actually
produce the individual copies of the papers ourselves," Stet explained
over the dinner table that night. "We have native printers who do that.
They've turned out some really remarkable Fizbian type fonts." "Very
clever of them," Tarb said, knowing that was what she was expected to
say. She glanced around the restaurant. In their low-cut evening
garments, the Terrestrial females looked much less Fizboid than they had
during the day. All that naked-looking skin; one would think they'd want
to cover it. Probably they were sick with jealousy of her beautiful
rose-colored down--what they could see of it, anyway.
"Of course, our real problem is getting proofreaders. The proofing
machines won't operate here either, of course, and so we need human
personnel. But what Fizbian would do such degrading work? We had thought
of convict labor, but--"
"Why mustn't I take off my wrap?" Tarb interrupted. "No one else is
wearing one."
Stet coughed. "You'll feel much less self-conscious about your wings if
you keep it on. And try not to use your feet so conspicuously. I'm sure
everyone understands you need them to eat with, but--"
"But I'm not in the least self-conscious about my wings. On Fizbus, they
were considered rather nice-looking, if I do say so myself."
"It's better," he said firmly, "not to emphasize the differences between
the natives and ourselves. You didn't object to wearing a Terrestrial
costume, did you?"
"No, I realize I must make some concessions to native prudery, but--"
"Matter of fact, I've been thinking it would be a good idea for you to
wear a stole or a cape or something in the daytime when you go to and
from the office. You wouldn't want to make yourself or the _Times_
conspicuous, I'm sure.... No, waiter, no coffee. We'll take champagne."
"I want to try coffee," Tarb said mutinously. "Champagne! You'd think I
was a fledgling, giving me that bubbly stuff!"
He looked at her. "Now don't be silly, Miss Morfatch ... Tarb. I can't
let you indulge in such rash experiments. You realize I am responsible
for you."
Tarb muttered darkly into her _coupe maison_.