They seemed not tired, but undoubtedly they were hungry, famished; and
before they would say a word of those strange things we knew they had
to tell, they made us feed them. "Regular food," as Martt laughingly
called it. "By the code! We've eaten for months weird things supposed
to be edible. My digestion is ruined."
Months! They had been gone two weeks and two days into a realm where
those little sixteen days were no more than a tiny fraction of a
second! Yet they spoke of months! It was very strange.
"Frannie! _Don't_ ask me that again." Martt affectionately tweaked her
chin. "We found her, I tell you. Wait till we've had supper--you'll
hear."
They ate with the relish of those long deprived of accustomed food; and
as we sat with them, forbearing to ask the eager questions flooding
us, again I had that impression of the strangeness which had come to
them. It was not only their manner of dress, though that of itself was
extraordinary. They wore shirts of a colored cloth with a high rolling
collar in front, low and open in back. Short trousers that were queerly
wide and flapping at the knee, stockings that seemed of a soft gray
leather and long-pointed shoes of a material I could not name. Over
the shirt a short jacket, wide-shouldered and with sleeves that puffed
and flared; and a skirt to it at the waist which rolled upward. Their
hats--which Frannie rescued from the vehicle--were solidly wooden of
aspect, with low circular crowns and triangular stiff brims.
The garb seemed grotesque; yet they took it so as a matter of course
when once we ceased our comments--and they were so easy in it, so
unconscious of it--that abruptly I realized it was my own viewpoint
that held the strangeness. Between them, also, there was a difference
of aspect--a rationality to their characters. The colors of their
garments materially differed. Brett's clothes were more sober--less
vivid, less extreme. His shirt was a somber brown; Martt's was a
glaring green. Martt's jacket had additional bangles fastened to
its cloth, it rolled higher in the skirt; tassels depended from his
elbows longer than those Brett wore. His jacket sleeves were fuller;
his trousers flared more, and were a more brilliant hue. But I will
say that when after a time I became in a measure accustomed to his
looks, Martt was very handsome; and he carried himself with a sort of
swinging, debonair grace and swagger wholly attractive.
They were strangers to us in their mode of dress; no one regarding
them could have named a nation of earth or any of the habited planets
from which they might have come. Yet the strangeness went deeper than
their clothes. They seemed older. A vague aspect of command seemed upon
them--especially did it envelop Brett, like an aura sensed but not
seen. Martt's old jocularity was unchanged; no dignity, no reservation,
no aloofness with us had been added to the new swagger. Yet beneath
his laughter there seemed always a hidden solemnity. And then I saw
it all--this subtle strangeness that clung to them--I saw it lurking
in their eyes. Memories mirrored there; memories of things no man had
seen and felt before. Eyes--and more especially Brett's eyes--which had
seen, perhaps, too much.