don’t hafta shout,” the native said. “I’m not deef.”
Clarey realized what he hadn’t noted consciously before—the natives spoke much more softly than Earthmen. Local custom two.
“You’ll be finding things a lot different here in Vangtor,” the native told him. “Livelier, more up to date. F’rinstance, do the cars always run on time in Ventimor?”
“Yes,” Clarey said firmly.
“Well, they don’t here. Know why? That’s because we’ve got more’n one chain of ‘em.” He made a noise like a wounded turshi. He was laughing.
Clarey smiled until his gums ached. “About the 39:12? It is rather important to me, as I understand the next chain does not leave for several days.”
The native lifted a chronometer hanging around his neck. “Ought to get in around 40 or so,” he said. “Whyn’t you get yourself a female or a bite to eat?” He waved his hand toward the two trade booths that were still open for business.
Clarey was very hungry. But, as he got near the food booth, the stench and the sight of the utensils were too much for him. He went back to the carways and sat huddled on a banquette until his chain came in at 40:91.
The car he picked was empty, so he stretched out on the seat and slept until it got to Zrig, very early in the morning. When he got out, day was dawning and a food booth hadn’t had time to accumulate odors so he climbed to one of the perches and pointed to something that looked like a lopsided pie and something else that looked like coffee. Neither was what it appeared to be, but the pseudo-pie was edible and the pseudo-coffee was good. Somehow, the food seemed to diminish his fright; it made the world less strange.
“Where you going, stranger?” the native asked, resting his arms on the top of the booth.
“Katund,” Clarey said. The other looked puzzled. “It is a village near Zrig.”
“That a fact?” The native bit his little finger. “You look like a city feller to me.”
“That is correct,” Clarey said patiently. “I come from Qytet. It is a place of some size.” He waited a decent interval before collapsing his smile.
“Now, why would a smart-looking young fellow like you want to go to a place like this Katund, eh?”
Clarey started to shrug, then remembered that was not a Damorlant gesture. “I have received employment there.”
“I should think you’d be able to do better’n that.” The native nibbled at his thumb. “What did you say you worked at?”
“I didn’t. I am a librarian.”
The native turned away and began to rinse his utensils. “In that case, I guess Katund’s as good a place as any.”
Surely, Clarey thought, even a Damorlant would at this point rise up and smite the food merchant with one of his own platters. Then he forgot his anger in apprehension. What in the name of whatever gods they worshipped on this planet could a librarian possibly be?
He got up and was about to go. Then he remembered to be friendly and outgoing. “I have never tasted better food,” he told the native. “Not even in Barshwat.”
The native picked up the coin Clarey had left by way of tip and bit it. Apparently it passed the test. “Stop here next time you’re passing this way,” he advised, “and I’ll really serve you something to write home about!”
The omnibus for Katund proved to be nothing but a large cart drawn by a team of hax. Clarey waited for internal manifestations as he rode. None came. I’ve found my land legs, he thought, or, rather, my land stomach. And with the hax jogging along the quiet lanes of Vangtor, he found himself almost at peace.
Earth was completely urbanized: there were the great metropolises; there were the parks; there were the oceans. That was all. So to him the Vangtort countryside looked like a huge park, with grass and trees and flowers that were slightly unrealistic in color, but beautiful just the same—even more, perhaps. It was idyllic. There’s bound to be some catch, he thought.
The other passengers, who’d been talking together in low tones, turned toward Clarey. “You’ll be the new librarian, I take it?” the tallest observed. He was a bulky creature, wearing a rich but sober cloak that came down to his ankles.
For a moment Clarey couldn’t understand him; the local dialect seemed to thicken the words. “Why, yes. How did you know that?”
The native wiggled his ears. “Not many folks come to Katund and a new librarian’s expected, so it wasn’t hard to figure. Except you don’t look my idea of a librarian.”
Clarey nervously smoothed the dark red cloak that covered him from shoulder to mid-calf. Was it too loud? Too quiet? Too short?
“What give you the idea of comin’ to Katund?” the oldest and smallest of the three asked in a whistling voice. “It’s no place anybody who wasn’t born here’d choose.”
“Most young fellers favor the city,” the third—a barrel-shaped individual—agreed. “I’d of gone there myself when I was a lad, if Dad hadn’t needed somebody to take over the Purple Furbush when he was gone.”
“Maybe he’s runnin’ away,” the ancient sibilated. “When I was a boy, there was a feller from the city came here; turned out to be a thief.” All three stared at Clarey.
“I—I replied to an advertisement in the Dordonec District Bulletin,” he said carefully. “I wished for a position that was peaceful and quiet. I am recovering from an overset of the nervous system.”
The oldest one said, “That’d account for it right enough.”
Clarey gritted his teeth and beamed at them.
“Typical idiot smile,” the ancient whispered. “Noticed it myself right off, but I didn’t like to say.”
“Is it right to have a librarian that isn’t all there?” the proprietor of the Furbush asked. “Foreigner, too. I mean to say—the young ones use him more’n most.”
“We’ve got to take what we can get,” the biggest native said. “Katund’s funds are running mighty low.”
“What can you expect when you ballot yourself a salary raise every year?” the old one whistled. The other two made animal noises. Clarey must not jump; he must learn to laugh like a turshi if he hoped to be the life of any Damorlant party.
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
