bright sunshine that was found on some outpost worlds. But the filter effect was reversible. Quantities of light too dim to see by or of the wrong frequency could be amplified. Cat-eyes, Terry thought, and indeed they were, for even in the total absence of light these lenses could let him see by his own reflected body heat.
A chronograph with a simple numeric read-out face presented a standard Galactic time and local time and included an adjustment rate so that it could be set precisely to the rotation of an individual planet, as well as an indication around the circumference that was graduated to show days, parts of years, and years, all to the base twelve—curiously, the same base twelve system that men used for time, but also curiously different in that the Galactic Standard day seemed to be thirty-six hours in length.
And twelve months to a year, Terry thought, and then realized—not twelve months; not twelve months as he knew them at all. Galactic years—Terry lost himself in computation for a moment. Here the system of comparison broke down. The galactic year was by no means an Earth year; and the twelve parts that one would think of as months of that galactic year were a much longer period of time than an Earth year.
The thirty-six hour day was combined by fives into what one could think of as a week; and there were sixty of these weeks in the galactic month; and twelve galactic months in the galactic year. The galactic year, then, was 3600 galactic days, or 5400 Earth days. The galactic week of five galactic days was a 180-hour week, as compared with the 24-hour day, seven-day week of Earth, which added up to only 168 hours per week. Surprisingly the galactic hour seemed to be quite similar if not the same as the Earth hour, and from there on down the divisions went by 60’s, in the same manner as the familiar minutes and seconds back on Earth.
But that five day week? Terry searched back through his memory for an elusive reference. Somewhere, hadn’t someone on Earth used a five day week? But the memory eluded him.
He turned the instrument over and was surprised to find three more readings. One puzzled him for a moment until he recognized that the chronograph was also capable of reading latitude on any spherical rotating body. The second reading gave longitude from an original setting; while the third was apparently a compass, giving a reading to tenths of a degree only when the instrument was held stationary. Pretty fancy navigational equipment, he decided. No “lost” Galactic Citizens so long as they had one of these.
The fourth item was a device he knew to be a food converter, although as he thought about it he assessed it as having more the capabilities of a selector than a converter. The operation was simple enough: once keyed by a drop of his own blood, the device would analyze any edible product for conformity with his own diet. It was capable of a limited amount of production of such things as vitamins, and selecting types of proteins and carbohydrates suitable for his diet. It could also refine out poisonous substances or, in case it couldn’t fulfill a function, it could state what else was necessary and which types of things were totally impossible. Like the language converter, it had the inherent capability of matching more than three thousand different dietary requirements of as many different life forms. Now it was his, keyed to his needs.
Only five items were to be his out of this storeroom of mysterious treasures. Terry’s eyes flickered from shelf to shelf. Then, Only five! he thought excitedly. Wow! Christmases and birthdays all rolled into one! And wouldn’t Cal be excited . . .
With the new possessions strapped firmly about him, Terry left the stores area. The computer, having satisfied its own curiosity—if computers have curiosity, he told himself—seemed to be now leaving him on his own.
His first idea, to explore the building, seemed rather pointless when the orderly new array of information in his head calmly gave him every dimension, every room, every—almost everything he’d need if he were going to build the place, he decided. But one area seemed more promising that the others, and he headed toward the cafeteria.
Passing down a long corridor on his way, Terry suddenly became aware of the emotion-pattern, half-icy curiosity, half-thought that he recognized as snake-thought.
He froze, then turned cautiously and met the reptilian gaze—not of a snake but of something out of such dim past history that he hardly recognized it.
The other being was not large, considering the pictures in museums, nor was he small, considering Terry’s only experience with the lizards that he somewhat resembled. About six feet, from head to tail, balanced on powerful hind legs and with shorter forepaws—prehensile hands but not much in the way of arm arrangements.
“A dinosaur!” Terry squeaked, feeling the hairs at the nape of his neck stiffen inadequately.
“A biped!” came in a guttural, dismayed tone from the other in Galactic. Then, “An intelligent biped? Extraordinary!” There was a pause before, gravely and formally, “Grontunk,” the creature said carefully. “Galactic Citizen Grontunk,” it amplified.
Terry stood unresponsive, gazing at the creature, and a new note entered the other’s voice as he continued after a pause.
“Are you perhaps a Supervisor Class? If so, Sir, I wish to register a complaint. I . . .”
“No.” Terry found his voice at last, a small voice. “General citizen. Terry Ferman.” His orientation was presenting him with several proper patterns of behavior when meeting with a member of another race, patterns that were gradually smoothing out his fight responses. Taking a grip on himself, Terry squelched both sets of reactions—those from his orientation and those from his instincts—and said carefully, “I gather you’re not Supervisor Class either? Let’s get something to eat and discuss our mutual problems.”
Grontunk moved forward, and while one part of Terry’s mind was still screaming at him, “Run!” another was coldly analyzing the Saurian’s motions; and a third was still informing him that no civilized being had any reason to be afraid of another, so long as both were well-oriented Galactic citizens.
But Grontunk had hesitated, and Terry followed the Saurian’s gaze to his own right hand, sweating and extremely slippery on the butt of the stunner.
“I assume that the citizen is not yet fully oriented?” said the growling voice.
With a wry grin, Terry removed his hand from the stunner. “I . . . uh . . . apologize.” He paused. “On the . . . world where I have been . . . there used to be some individuals similar to yourself that were classified as somewhat dangerous. I apologize for my instincts. . . .”
Grontunk’s tone was only faintly condescending. “Survival instincts are, after all, more a basic than a civilized condition. I, too, was startled by your appearance, though on my home world bipeds have more a nuisance value than danger connotations. Large and carnivorous, they endanger our domestic stock; but I think our hatred and fear of them actually stems from the instinctive revulsion of the coldblooded for the hot-blooded. However, I am broad-minded and . . .” He trailed off as though flustered and then murmured as an afterthought, “Anyhow, I wasn’t too worried about your little stunner. The computer would have cooled you quick enough for irrational behavior.”
Terry stared at the huge beast for a full second, his thoughts whirling. And then he felt the reaction setting in: the reaction to all the shifts and changes of thought pattern that had occurred so abruptly and so irresistibly in so short a period of time. The laughter that started, it seemed, at his toes, was as irresistible as the thought-pattern changes had been. He found himself laughing helplessly, while the Saurian stood impassive; though—was that a look of perturbation on his “face”?
The wave of laughter swept through and past Terry, and he patted his stunner once, and got his voice under control.
“I
