"You could put it that way," Cudyk told him. "He has convinced himself,
in his conscious mind at least, that we are the dominant species on
this planet; that the Niori are our social and economic inferiors. He
won't tolerate any suggestion that it isn't so."
Harkway nodded again, looking very solemn. "A tragedy," he said. "But
understandable, of course. Some of the older people simply can't adjust
to the reality of our position in the galaxy."
"Not many people actually like it," said Cudyk.
Harkway looked at him thoughtfully. He said, "Mr. Cudyk, I don't want
you to take this as a complaint, but I've gathered the impression that
you're not in sympathy with the Minority People's League."
"No," said Cudyk.
"May I ask what your political viewpoint is?"
"I'm neutral," said Cudyk. "Apolitical."
Harkway said politely, "I hope you won't take offense if I ask why?
It's evident, even to me, that you're a man of intelligence and
ability."
Everything is evident to you, Cudyk thought wearily, except what you
don't want to see. He said, "I don't believe our particular Humpty
Dumpty can be put back together again, Mr. Harkway."
Harkway looked at him intently, but said nothing. He glanced at the
signboard over the lighted windows they were approaching. "Is this the
place?"
"Yes."
Harkway continued to look at the sign. Above the English "CHONG YIN'S
TEA ROOM", and the Chinese characters, was a legend that read:
[Illustration: sign in other language]
"That's a curious alphabet," he said.
"It's a very efficient one," Cudyk told him. "It's based on the design
of an X in a rectangle--like this." He traced it with his finger on the
wall. "Counting each arm of the cross as one stroke, there are eight
strokes in the figure. Using only two strokes to a letter, there are
twenty-eight possible combinations. They use the sixteen most graceful
ones, and add twenty-seven three-stroke letters to bring it up to
forty-three, one for each sound in their language. The written language
is completely phonetic, therefore. But there are only eight keys on a
Niori typewriter."
He looked at Harkway. "It's also perfectly legible: no letter looks
too much like any other letter. And it has a certain beauty, don't you
think?" He paused. "Hasn't it struck you, Mr. Harkway, that anything
our hosts do is likely to be a little more sensible and more sensitive
than the human equivalent?"
"I come from Reg Otay," said Harkway. "They don't have any visual arts
or any written language there. But I see what you mean. What does the
sign say--the same thing as the English?"
"No. It says, 'Yungiwo Ren Trakru Rith.' 'Trakru rith' is Niori for
'hospitality house'--it's what they call anything that we would call
tea room, or restaurant, or beer garden."
"And 'Yungiwo Ren'?"
"That's their version of 'Chung kuo jen'[A]--the Chinese for 'Chinese.'
At first they called us all that, because most of the original
immigrants were from China; but they've got over it now--they found out
some of us didn't like it."
[Footnote A: _Pronounced "jung guo ren"._]
* * * * *
Cudyk opened the door.
A few aliens were sitting at the round tables in the big outer room.
Cudyk watched Harkway's face, and saw his eyes widen with shock. The
Niori were something to see, the first time.
They were tall and erect, and their anatomy was not even remotely like
man's. They had six limbs each, two for walking, four for manipulation.
Their bodies were covered by a pale, horny integument which grew in
irregular sections, so that you could tell the age of a Niori by the
width of the growth-areas between the plates of his armor. But you saw
none of those things at first. You saw the two glowing violet eyes,
set wide apart in a helmet-shaped head, and the startlingly beautiful
markings on the smooth shell of the face--blue on pale cream, like an
ancient porcelain tile. And you saw the crest--a curved, lucent shape
that even in a lighted room glowed with its own frost-blue. No Niori
ever walked in darkness.
Cudyk guided Harkway toward the door at the far end of the room.
"We'll see who's in the back room," he said. "There is usually a small
gathering at this hour."
The inner room was more brightly lit than the other. Down the center,
in front of a row of empty booths, was a long table. Three men sat at
one end of it, with teacups and a bowl of lichee nuts between them.
They looked up as Cudyk and Harkway came in.
"Gentlemen," said Cudyk, "may I present Mr. Harkway, who is here on a
mission from the Minority People's League? Mr. Burgess, Father Exarkos,
Mr. Ferguson."
The three shook hands with Harkway, Father Exarkos smiling pleasantly,
the other two with more guarded expressions. The priest was in his
fifties, grey-haired, hollow-templed, with high orbital ridges and a
square, mobile mouth. He said, in English oddly accented by a mixture
of French and Greek, "Please sit down, both of you ... I understand
that your first evening here has been not too pleasant, Mr. Harkway. I
hope the rest of your stay will be more so."
Burgess snorted, not quite loudly enough to be deliberately rude. His
face had a pleasant, even a handsome cast except for the expression
of petulance he was now wearing. He was a few years younger than the
priest: a big-boned, big-featured man whose slightly curved back and
hollowed cheeks showed that he had lost bulk since his prime.
Ferguson's pale face was expressive but completely controlled. The
gambler's eyes were narrow and unreadable, the lips and the long
muscles of the jaw showing nothing more than surface emotion. He asked
politely, "Planning to stay long, Mr. Harkway?"
"That all depends, Mr. Ferguson, on--to be blunt, on what sort of a
reception I get. I won't try to conceal from you the fact that my role
here is that of a political propagandist. I want to convince as many
people as I can that the Minority People's movement is the best hope of
the human race. If I can find that there's some chance of succeeding,
I'll stay as long as necessary. If not--"
"I'm afraid we won't be seeing much of you, in that case, Mr. Harkway,"
said Burgess. His tone was scrupulously correct, but his nostrils were
quivering with repressed indignation.
"What makes you say that, Mr. Burgess?" Harkway asked, turning his
intent, serious gaze on the older man.
"Your program, as I understand it," said Burgess, "aims at putting
humanity on an equal basis with various assorted races of lizards,
beetles and other vermin. I don't think you will find much sympathy for
that program here, sir."
"I'm glad to say that, through no fault of your own, you're mistaken,"
said Harkway, smiling slightly. "I think you're referring to the
program of the right wing of the League, which was dominant for the
last several years. It's true that for that period, the M.P.L.'s line
was to work for the gradual integration of human beings--and other
repressed races--into the society of the planets on which they live.
But that's all done with now. The left wing, to which I belong, has
won a decisive victory at the League elections.
"Our program," Harkway continued earnestly, "rejects the doctrine of
assimilation as a biological and cultural absurdity. What we propose
to do, and with sufficient help will do, is to return humanity to its
homeland--to reconstitute Earth as an autonomous, civilized member of
the galactic entity. We realize, of course, that this is a gigantic
undertaking, and that much aid will be required from the other races of
the galaxy.... Were you about to say something, Mr. Burgess?"
Burgess said bitterly, "What you mean, in plain words, Mr. Harkway,
is that you think we all ought to go home--dissolve Earth's galactic
empire--give it all back to the natives. I don't think you'll find much
support for _that_, either."
Harkway bit his lip, and cast a glance at Cudyk that seemed to say, You
warned me, but I forgot. He turned to Ferguson, who was smiling around
his cigar as blandly as if nothing out of the way had been said. "What
is your view, Mr. Ferguson?"
Ferguson waved his cigar amiably. "You'll have to count me out, Mr.
Harkway. I'm doing okay as things are--I have no reason to want any
changes."