Dark Benediction

“No—no, I believe not, E Roki. Quinjori?”

“Yes. A very curious folk. Very curious indeed.” He smiled to himself and fell silent. Perhaps, before his visit was over, he could trade fictions about the fictitious Quinjori for facts about the Solarians.

Roki met his interpreter in the spaceport offices, donned the loose garb of Tragor, and went to quibble with repair service. Still he could not shorten the promised time on the new synchros. They were obviously stuck for a week on Tragor. He thought of trying to approach the Solarian ship, but decided that it would be better to avoid suspicion.

Accompanied by the bandy-legged interpreter, whose mannerisms were those of a dog who had received too many beatings, Roki set out for Polarin, the Tragorian capital, a few miles away. His companion was a small middle-aged man with a piping voice and flaring ears; Roki decided that his real job was to watch his alien charge for suspicious activities, for the little man was no expert linguist. He spoke two or three of the tongues used in the Sixty-Star Cluster, but not fluently. The Cophian decided to rely on the Esperanto of space, and let the interpreter translate it into native Tragorian wherever necessary.

“How would E Roki care to amuse himself?” the little man asked. “A drink? A pretty girl? A museum?”

Roki chuckled. “What do most of your visitors do while they’re here?” He wondered quietly what, in particular, the Solarian visitors did. But it might not be safe to ask.

“Uh—that would depend on nationality, sir,” murmured Pok. “The true-human foreigners often like to visit the Wanderer, an establishment which caters to their business. The evolved-human and the nonhuman visitors like to frequent The Court of Kings—a rather, uh, peculiar place.” He looked at Roki, doubtfully, as if wondering about his biological status.

“Which is most expensive?” he asked, although he really didn’t care. Because of the phony “observation mission papers,” he could make Colonel Beth foot the bill.

“The Court of Kings is rather high,” Pok said. “But so is the Wanderer.”

“Such impartiality deserves a return. We will visit them both, E Pok. If it suits you.”

“I am your servant, E Roki.”

How to identify a Solarian without asking?—Roki wondered as they sat sipping a sticky, yeasty drink in the lounge of the Wanderer. The dimly lighted room was filled with men of all races—pygmies, giants, black, red, and brown. All appeared human, or nearly so. There were a few women among the crewmen, and most of them removed their borrowed veils while in the tolerant sanctuary of the Wanderer. The Tragorian staff kept stealing furtive glances at these out-system females, and the Cophian wondered about their covetousness.

“Why do you keep watching the strange women, E Pok?” he asked the interpreter a few minutes later.

The small man sighed. “Evidently you have not yet seen Tragorian women.”

Roki had seen a few heavily draped figures on the street outside, clinging tightly to the arms of men, but there hadn’t been much to look at. Still, Pok’s hint was enough to give him an idea.

“You don’t mean Tragor III is one of those places where evolution has pushed the sexes further apart?”

“I do,” Pok said sadly. “The feminine I.Q. is seldom higher than sixty, the height is seldom taller than your jacket pocket, and the weight is usually greater than your own. As one traveler put it: ‘short, dumpy, and dumb’. Hence, the Purdah.”

“Because you don’t like looking at them?”

“Not at all. Theirs is our standard of beauty. The purdah is because they are frequently too stupid to remember which man is their husband.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Not at all,” said Pok, whose tongue was being loosened by the yeasty brew. “It is our tragedy. We can bear it.”

“Well, you’ve got it better than some planets. On Jevah, for instance, the men evolved into sluggish spidery little fellows, and the women are big husky brawlers.”

“Ah yes. But Sol is the most peculiar of all, is it not?” said Pok.

“How do you mean?” Roki carefully controlled his voice and tried to look bored.

“Why, the Vamir, of course.”

Because of the fact that Pok’s eyes failed to move toward any particular part of the room, Roki concluded that there were no Solarians in the place. “Shall we visit the Court of Kings now, E Pok?” he suggested.

The small man was obviously not anxious to go. He murmured about ugly brutes, lingered over his drink, and gazed wistfully at a big dusky Sanbe woman. “Do you suppose she would notice me if I spoke to her?” the small interpreter asked.

“Probably. So would her five husbands. Let’s go.” Pok sighed mournfully and came with him.