LITMIR.BIZ

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      The big one stood up as well as he could in the swaying cart. “Guess I’d better introduce myself,” he said, holding out a sturdily shod foot. “I’m Malesor, headman of Katund. This is Piq; he deals in blots and snarls. And Hanxi here’s the inn-keeper.”

      “My name is Balt,” Clarey said. “I am honored by this meeting.” And he went through the conventional toe-touching with each one.

      “Guess you’ll be putting up with me until you’ve found permanent quarters, Til Balt,” Hanxi said. “Not that you could do much better than make your permanent home at the Purple Furbush. You’ll find life more comfortable than if you lodge with a private fam’ly. Bein’ a young unmarried man—” he twisted his nose suggestively—”you’d naturally want a bit of freedom, excitement.”

      “Remember he’s a librarian,” Piq whistled. “He might not appreciate as good a time as most young fellers.”

      Clarey was glad when a cluster of domes appearing over the horizon indicated that they’d reached Katund. He looked about him curiously. The countryside he’d been able to equate with a park, but this small aggregate of detached dwellings bore no relationship to anything in his experience.

      His kit was dexterously removed from his hand. “Guess you’ll want to check in first,” Hanxi said, “so I’ll just take your gear over to the inn for you.”

      He pointed out a small dome shading from lavender at the bottom to rose pink on top. Over the door were glittering symbols which Clarey was able to decipher after a moment’s concentration as “Dordonec District Public Library—Katund Branch,” and underneath, in smaller letters, “Please Blow Nose Before Entering.”

      Hesitantly, he touched the screen that covered the portway. It rolled back. He went inside.

      At his first sight of what filled the shelves from floor to topmost curve of the dome, Clarey became charged with fury. The ancient books in the glass cases back on Earth were of a different shape and substance, but, “My God,” he cried aloud, “it’s nothing but another archive!”

      The female in charge glared at him. “Silence, please!”

      Suddenly the anger left him, and the fear. He was no longer a stranger on a strange world. He was an archivist in an archive.

      She took a better look at him and the local equivalent of a bright smile shone on her face. “May I help you, til?” she asked in a softer, sweeter voice.

      “I am Balt, til,” he said. “I am the new librarian.”

      She came out from behind the desk to offer the ceremonial toe touch. “I’m Embelsira, the head librarian, and I am very glad to see you!” Her tone was warm; she really seemed to mean it. “Everything’s in such a mess,” she went on. “I’ve needed help so very badly, so very long.” She looked up at him, for she was a good deal shorter than he. “So glad,” she murmured, “so very, very glad to see you, really.”

      “Well, now you have help,” he said with quiet strength. “Where are the files?”

      They were written instead of punched, of alien design, in an alien language, arranged according to alien patterns, but he understood them at a glance. “These will need to be re-organized from top to bottom,” he said.

      “Yes, Til Balt,” she said demurely. “Whatever you say.”

      Once every six months, Clarey went for a long weekend to visit his “Aunt Askidush” in Barshwat. Barshwat was the largest city on Damorlan; it was the capital of Vintnor—the greatest nation. Earthmen, Clarey thought, as he traveled there in the comparative luxury of a first-class compartment—as a rich nephew, he saw no real reason to travel third-class—were disgustingly obvious.

      That first time, he was five hours late, and Blynn was a nervous wreck. “I was afraid you’d been killed or discovered or God knows,” he babbled, practically embracing Clarey in a fervency of relief. “I was afraid—”

      “Come, come, Colonel,” Clarey interrupted, striding past him, “you know how inefficient Damorlant transport is, and I had to make two chain connections.”

      “Of course,” the colonel said, wiping the perspiration off his forehead. “Of course. And you must be dead tired. Sit down; let me take your cloak—”

      “How about the servants?” Clarey asked.

      “This is their weekend off.” Blynn pulled himself together. “Really, my dear fellow, I’ve been in this business longer than you. I know what precautions to take.”

      “Never can be too careful.”

      “I see you’ve got yourself another cloak,” the colonel said as he hung it in the guest snap. “Very handsome. I’ve never seen one like it.”

      “Yes. As a matter of fact, several people on the chains wanted to know where I’d got it.”

      “Where did you get it?” asked Blynn, feeling the material. “Might go well as an export.”

      “Afraid it couldn’t be exported. It’s a custom job, you see. Hand-woven, hand-decorated. It was a birthday present.”

      The colonel stared at him.

      “Well,” Clarey said, “if you didn’t expect me to get birthday presents, you shouldn’t have put a birth date on my identity papers. My boss baked me a melxhane—”

      “Your boss!”

      “The relationship between employer and employee is much different from the way it is on Earth,” Clarey explained. Reaching over, he flipped the switch on the recorder and repeated the statement, adding, “Embelsira is kind, considerate, helpful; she can’t do enough for me.” He put his mouth close to the mechanism. “Be sure to tell MacFingal that.”

      “Now, now,” the colonel said, turning the switch off. He pushed a small tea wagon over to Clarey. “You must be starving. Have some sandwiches and coffee. I’m sure you’ll be glad to taste good Earth food again.”

      “Yes, indeed,” Clarey said, trying not to make a face. “Er—shouldn’t we start recording while everything’s fresh in my mind?”

      “Might as well,” the colonel said, flipping the switch again. “Pity we don’t have a probe here. Would save so much time. But, of course, it’s an expensive installation. All right, Clarey, over to you.”

      Clarey choked on a mouthful of sandwich and hesitated. “Begin with your very first impressions,” the colonel urged.

      “Well, the archives—the library—was in a real mess. Took me over two weeks to get it in even roughly decent shape. Three different systems of classification and, added to that—”

      “Not so much the library, old chap. Leave the technical stuff for later. What I meant was your first impressions of the natives.... Is something wrong with the coffee? And you’ve hardly touched your sandwich. Maybe you’d like another kind. I have several varieties here—ham and cheese and—”

      “Oh, no,” Clarey protested. “The one I have is fine. It’s just that I’m—well, to tell you the truth,” he confessed, “I’ve grown accustomed to Damorlant food.”

      “Don’t see how you could,” the colonel said. “Nauseating stuff—to my way of thinking,” he added politely. He opened a sandwich and inspected the filling.

      “You’ve only eaten at public places. Even the better restaurants don’t put themselves out for Earthmen, say they have no—palates, I guess the word would be. But you ought to taste my landlady’s cooking!”

      “All this is being taped, you know. They’ll have to listen to every word on Earth.”

      “If only I could convey the true picture through words. Her ragouts are rhapsodies, her soufflés symphonies—I’m using rough Terrestrial equivalents, of course—”

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