Miss Snow raised pale eyebrows.
"Is something wrong?" Tarb asked anxiously. "Should I have put in that
bit about work, study, meditate? It seems inappropriate somehow."
"Oh, no, not that. It's just that your letter--well, violates Mr.
Zarnon's precept that, in Rome, one must do as the Romans do."
"But this isn't Rome," Tarb replied, bewildered. "It's New York."
"He didn't make the saying up," Miss Snow replied testily. "It's a
Terrestrial proverb."
"Oh," Tarb said.
She resented this creature's trying to tell her how to do her job. On
the other hand, Tarb was wise enough to realize that Miss Snow,
unpleasant though she might be, probably did know Stet well enough to be
able to predict his reactions.
So Tarb not only was reluctant to show Stet what she had already done,
but hesitated about answering another and even more urgent letter that
had just been brought in by special messenger. She tried to compromise
by submitting the letters to Drosmig--for, technically speaking, it was
he who was her immediate superior--but he merely groaned, "Tell 'em all
to drop dead," from his perch and refused to open his eyes.
In the end, Tarb had to take the letters to Stet's office. Miss Snow
trailed along behind her, uninvited. And, since this was a place of
business, Tarb could not claim a privacy violation. Even if it weren't a
place of business, she remembered, she couldn't--not here on Earth.
Advanced spirituality, hah!
Advanced pain in the pinions!
Stet read the first letter and her answer smilingly. "Excellent, Tarb--"
her hearts leaped--"for a first try, but I'd like to suggest a few
changes, if I may."
"Well, of course," she said, pretending not to notice the smirk on Miss
Snow's face.
"Just write this Professor B'Goot that he should do his shopping at a
grocery that offers service and practice his economies elsewhere. A
professor, of all people, is expected to uphold the dignity of his own
race--the idea, sneering at a culture that was thousands of years old
when we were still building nests! Terrestrials couldn't possibly have
any respect for him if they saw him prodding kumquats with his toes."
"It's no sillier than writing with one's vestigial wings!" Tarb blazed.
"Well!" Miss Snow exclaimed in Terran. "Well, _really_!"
Tarb started to stick out her tongue, then remembered. "I didn't mean to
offend you, Miss Snow. I know it's your custom. But wouldn't you
understand if I typewrote with my feet?"
Miss Snow tittered.
"If you want the honest truth, hon, it would make you look like a
feathered monkey."
"If you want the honest truth about what you look like to me,
dearie--it's a plucked chicken!"
"Tarb, I think you should apologize to Miss Snow!"
"All right!" Tarb stuck out her tongue. Miss Snow promptly thrust out
hers in return.
"Ladies, ladies!" Stet cried. "I think there has been a slight confusion
of folkways!" He quickly changed the subject. "Is that another letter
you have there, Tarb?"
"Yes, but I didn't try to answer it. I thought you'd better have a look
at it first, since Miss Snow didn't seem to think much of the job I did
with the other one."
"Miss Snow always has the _Times'_ welfare at heart," Stet remarked
ambiguously, and read:
_Chicago_
_Dear Senbot Drosmig:_
_I am employed as translator by the extraterrestrial division of
Burns and Deerhart, Inc., the well-known interstellar mail-order
house. As the company employs no other Fizbians and our offices are
situated in a small rural community where no others of our race
reside, I find myself rather lonely. Moreover, being a bachelor,
with neither chick nor child on Fizbus, I have nothing to look
forward to upon my return to the Home Planet some day._
_Accordingly, I decided to adopt a child to cheer my declining
years. I dispatched an interstellargram to a reliable orphanage on
Fizbus, outlining my hopes and requirements in some detail. After
they had satisfied themselves as to my income, strength of
character, etc., they sent me a fatherless and motherless egg in
cold storage, which I was supposed to hatch upon arrival._
_However, when the egg came to Earth, it was impounded by Customs.
They say it is forbidden to import extrasolar eggs. I have tried to
explain to them that it is not at all a question of importation but
of adoption; however, they cannot or will not understand._
_Please tell me what to do. I fear that they may not be keeping the
egg at the correct Fizbian freezing point--which, as you know, is a
good deal lower than Earth's. The fledgling may hatch by itself and
receive a traumatic shock that might very well damage its entire
psyche permanently._
_Frantically yours,_
_Glibmus Gluyt_
"Oh, for the stars' sake!" Stet exploded. "This is really too much! Viz
our consul, Miss Snow. That egg must go back to Fizbus at once, before
any Terrestrials hear of it! And I must notify the government back on
the Home Planet to keep a close check on all egg shipments. Something
like this must certainly not occur again."
"Why shouldn't the Terrestrials hear of it?" Tarb asked, outraged. "And
I think it's mean of you to send back a poor little orphan egg like that
when it has a chance of getting a good home."
"An egg!" Miss Snow repeated incredulously. "You mean you really...?"
She gave me one mad little hoot of laughter and then stopped and
strangled slightly. Her face turned purple in her efforts to restrain
mirth. _Really_, Tarb thought, _she looks so much better that color_.
Stet's crest twitched violently. "I hope--" he began. "I do hope you
will keep this ... knowledge to yourself, Miss Snow."
"But of course," she assured him, calming down. "I'm dreadfully sorry I
was so rude. Naturally I wouldn't dream of telling a soul, Mr. Zarnon.
You can trust me."
"I'm sure I can, Miss Snow."
Tarb almost choked with indignation. "You mean you've been keeping the
facts of our life from Terrestrials? As if they were fledglings ... no,
even fledglings are told these days."
"One could hardly blame him for it, Miss Morfatch," Miss Snow said. "You
wouldn't want people to know that Fizbians laid eggs, would you?"
"And why not?"
"Tarb," Stet intervened, "you don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, don't I? You're ashamed of the fact that we bear our children in a
clean, decent, honorable way instead of--" She stopped. "I'm being as
bad as you two are. Probably the Terrestrials' way of reproduction
doesn't seem dirty to them--but, since they do reproduce _that_ way,
they could scarcely find our way objectionable!"
"Tarb, that's not how a young girl should talk!"
"Oh, go lay an egg!" she said, knowing that she had overstepped the
limits of propriety, but unable to let him get away with that. "I hope
to be a wife and mother some day," she added, "and I only hope that when
that time comes, I'll be able to lay good eggs."
"Miss Morfatch," Stet said, keeping control of his temper with a visible
effort, "that will be enough from you. If common decency doesn't
restrain you, please remember that I am your employer and that _I_ set
the policies on _my_ paper. You'll do what you're told and keep a civil
tongue in your head or you'll be sent back to Fizbus. Do I make myself
clear?"
"You do, indeed," Tarb said. How could she ever have thought he was
charming and handsome? Well, perhaps he still was handsome, but fine
feathers do not make fine deeds. And, if it came to that, it wasn't his
paper.
"We have the same thing on Terra," Miss Snow murmured sympathetically to
Stet. "These young whippersnappers think they can start in running the
paper the very first day. Why, Belinda Romney herself--she's a distant
cousin of mine, you know--told me--"
"Miss Snow," Tarb said, "I hope for the sake of Earth that you are not a
typical example of the Terrestrial species."
"And you, hon," Miss Snow retorted, "don't belong on a paper, but in a
chicken coop."
"Ladies!" Stet said helplessly. "Women," he muttered, "certainly do not
belong on a newspaper. Matter of fact, they don't belong anywhere; their
place is in the home only because there's nowhere else to put them."
Both females glared at him.
* * * * *
During the next fortnight, Tarb gained fluency in Terran and also
learned to operate a Terrestrial typewriter equipped with Fizbian
type--mostly so that she could dispense with the services of the
invaluable Miss Snow. She didn't like typing, though--it chipped her
toenails and her temper. Besides, Drosmig kept complaining that the
noise prevented him from sleeping and she preferred him to sleep rather
than hang there making irrelevant and, sometimes, unpleasantly relevant
remarks.
"Longing for the old scripto, eh?" one of the cameramen smiled as he
lounged in the open doorway of her office. Although she was fond of
fresh air, Tarb realized that she would have to keep the door shut from
now on. Too many of the younger members of the staff kept booing at her
as they passed, and now they had formed the habit of dropping in to
offer her advice, encouragement and invitations to meals. At first, the
attention had pleased her--but now she was much too busy to be bothered;
she was going to turn out acceptable answers to those letters or die
trying.
"Well, if the power can't be converted, it can't," she said grimly.
"Griblo, I do wish you'd be a dear and flutter off. I--"