"Very, very touching," Michael agreed. "Are they sick or something?"
"Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.
They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why they
leave Sirius in such great numbers."
"Fasten your suction disks, please," the stewardess, a pretty
two-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.
"We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to all
passengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted into
the Union early this morning."
All the passengers cheered.
"Since it is considered immodest on Zosma," she continued, "ever to
appear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen in
public without some sort of head-covering."
Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searching
their packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.
The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat in
piercingly bright green.
"Always got to keep on your toes," he whispered to the younger man.
"The Universe is expanding every minute."
The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,
floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around him
curiously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such of
those as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.
Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders--humanoids from
Vega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians--but nothing to
compare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbed
tentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians plodded
alongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless others
whom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.
The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings rendered
kaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights and
banners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-green
cloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-green
breeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhat
less pudgy man.
* * * * *
Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. "I have no immediate
business, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would you
like to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?"
"Frankly," Michael admitted, "the first thing I'd like to do is get
myself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished."
Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously and
scuttled off on six legs apiece.
"Shh, not so loud! There are females present." Carpenter drew the
youth to a secluded corner. "Don't you know that on Theemim it's
frightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?"
"But why?" Michael demanded in too loud a voice. "What's wrong with
eating in public here on Earth?"
Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. "Hush," he
cautioned. "After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or even
mention in public, aren't there?"
"Well, yes. But those are different."
"Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.
But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have accepted
the Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violated
one of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of the
Theemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do unto
extraterrestrials as you would be done by.'"
"But I'm still hungry," Michael persisted, modulating his voice,
however, to a decent whisper. "Do the proprieties demand that I starve
to death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?"
"Naturally," the salesman whispered back. "Portyork provides for all
bodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently located
throughout the port, and there must be some on the field."
After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females were
watching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field and
pressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.
"That's the nearest one," Carpenter explained.
* * * * *
Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusively
marked "Feeding Station," Carpenter showed Michael where to insert a
two-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael into
a tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a food
compartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid synthetics
and was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures waste
time and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all a
matter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried to
chew food that was meant to be gulped.
A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. "Do you suffer from
gastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horrid
condition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair."
Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartment
to find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing at
the luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.
"Let's go to the Old Town," he suggested to Michael. "It will be of
great interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself."
A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were lined
up in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages of
the tour he offered:
"Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor."
"If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica."
"Movid stars go to Mars."
Carpenter smiled politely at them. "No space trips for us today,
gentlemen. We're staying on Terra." He guided the bewildered young man
through the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number of
surface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing for
business.
"Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,
lined with luxury _hukka_ fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rare
scents from Algedi."
"Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my fine
cab from Mizar. Just press a button--it won't cost you nuttin'--see
a passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuing
Eliza."
"All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your race
or your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who rides
in the taxi from Earth."
"Couldn't we--couldn't we walk? At least part of the way?" Michael
faltered.
Carpenter stared. "Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk more
than two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk."
"But they have no feet."
"That has nothing whatsoever to do with it."
* * * * *
Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... which
reeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. "No, no!
Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would break
the driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't want
to be had up for ego injury, would you?"
"Of course not," Michael whispered weakly.
"Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer," the advideo informed
him, "when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara."
After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five and
was able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,
the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, the
most cosmopolitan city--cosmopolitan in its architecture as well as
its inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tall
helical edifices of the Venusians.
"You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reached
architecture," Carpenter pointed out. "See those period houses in the
Frank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?"
"Very quaint," Michael commented.
Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it was
still daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped out
from the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquire
about this, "We now interrupt the commercials," the advideo said, "to
bring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that are
becoming so popular...."
"I shall scream," stated Carpenter, "if they play _Beautiful Blue
Deneb_ just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heard
this before."
"Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking," sang a buxom Betelgeusian, "what
a Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace the
wasteful sea."
"I guess the first thing for me to do," Michael began in a businesslike
manner, "is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?"
"The word _hotel_," Carpenter explained through pursed lips, "is
not used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasant
connotations. It means--a place of dancing girls. I hardly think...."
"Certainly not," Michael agreed austerely. "I merely want a lodging."
"That word is also--well, you see," Carpenter told him, "on Zaniah it
is unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family."
"They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean."
"More like bees. So those creatures who travel--" Carpenter lowered his
voice modestly "--_alone_ hire a family for the duration of their stay.
There are a number of families available, but the better types come
rather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned price
controls, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise as
much as--if you'll excuse my use of the expression--tariffs would."
* * * * *
The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled with
transparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most of
the antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of the
standard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks because
most non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanical
devices.
"This," said Carpenter, "is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,
but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permit
the existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered the
Union, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install the
clocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand."
"The pictures in my history books--" Michael began.
"Did I hear you correctly, sir?" The capes of a bright blue cloak
trembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. "Did
you use the word _history_?" He pronounced it in terms of loathing. "I
have been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to the
police, sir."
"Please don't!" Carpenter begged. "This youth has just come from one of
the Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.
I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race is
noted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part."
"Well," the red one conceded, "let it not be said that Meropians are
not tolerant. But, be careful, young man," he warned Michael. "There
are other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or you
might find yourself in trouble."
He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet and
gold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from his
floating platform in the air.
"I should have told you," Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropian
swirled off. "Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.
They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't any
history at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it."
"Naturally," Michael said. "Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there some
special reason for everything being decorated in red and green? I
noticed it along the way and it's all over here, too."
"Why, Christmas is coming, my boy," Carpenter answered, surprised.
"It's July already--about time they got started fixing things up. Some
places are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrines
cleared away."
* * * * *
A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly over
Times Square.
"Izarians," Carpenter explained "They're much in demand for Christmas
displays."
The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: "It
came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels
bending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,
good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universe
as well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash the
cymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's."
"This beautiful walk you see before you," Carpenter said, waving an
expository arm, "shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is called
Broadway. To your left you will be delighted to see--"
"Listen, could we--" Michael began.
"--Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second--"
"By the way--"
"It is extremely rude and hence illegal," Carpenter glared, "to
interrupt anyone who is speaking."
"But I would like," Michael whispered very earnestly, "to get washed.
If I might."
The other man frowned. "Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarks
was converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.
Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have to
take a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know."
"A taxi? Isn't there one closer?"
"Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. The
installations are extremely expensive."
They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the variety
equipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.
Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in a
remarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures in
his history--in his books, except that none of them showed the huge
golden sign "Public-Washport" riding on its spire.
Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.
"Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. _A_ group Vegans, fourteenth floor
right. _B_ group, fourteenth floor left. _C_ group, fifteenth floor
right. _D_ group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.
Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.
Uranians, basement...."
Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,
translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanying
themselves on _wemps_, a cross between a harp and a flute. "Foreign
planets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheres
prove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the sky
to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."
The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; one
credit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:
"Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,
for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some use
oil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rub
with grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lick
themselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook it
away in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there are
than I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one that
works for all is Omniclene from Kiffa."
* * * * *
"And now," smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, "we
must see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,
but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourself
beneath your station."
Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhing
"Only 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas" across an aquamarine sky.
"They won't be permanent?" he asked. "The family, I mean?"
"Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time you
choose. But why are you so anxious?"
The young man blushed. "Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my own
some day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact."
Carpenter beamed. "That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it's
an Earth family that's chosen you--it's so awkward being adopted by
extraterrestrials."
"Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a--a girl,
you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind in
Portyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and...."
"_Married!_" Carpenter was now completely shocked. "You _mustn't_ use
that word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusive
possession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.
Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your--er--friend and wanted
her also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not having
her, would you?"