Sir Isaac lumbered in. "My dear boy, will you forgive an old man in a hurry for treating you with the informality ordinarily used only with one's own children?"
"Why, certainly, Sir Isaac." Don was still puzzled. If Sir Isaac were a dragon in a hurry, he was the first one in history.
"If you are refreshed, then please come with me." Don did so, reflecting that they must have had him under observation; Sir Isaac's entrance was too timely. The old dragon led him out of his chambers, down a passage, and into a room which might have been considered cozy by dragon standards; it was less than a hundred feet across.
Don decided that it must be Sir Isaac's study, as there were roll upon roll of ribbon books racked on the walls and the usual sort of rotating bench set at the height of his handling tentacles. Above the racks on one wall was what Don judged to be a mural, but it looked like meaningless daubs to him; the three colors in the infra-red which dragons see and we do not produced the usual confusion. On second thought he decided that it might actually be meaningless; certainly a lot of human art did not seem to mean anything.
But the point which he noticed most and wondered about was that the room contained not one but two chairs meant for humans.
Sir Isaac invited him to sit down. Don did so and found that the chair was of the best powered furniture; it felt out his size and shape and conformed to it. He found out at once for whom the other terrestrial chair was intended; a man strode in-fiftyish, lean and hard in the belly, wiry grey hair around a bald pate. He had an abrupt manner and gave the impression that his orders were always obeyed. "Morning, gentlemen!'' He turned to Don. "You're Don Harvey. My name's Phipps-Montgomery Phipps." He spoke as if that were sufficient explanation. "You've grown some. Last time I saw you I walloped your britches for biting my thumb."
Don felt put off by the man's top-sergeant air. He supposed that it was some acquaintance of his parents whom he had met in the dim reaches of his childhood, but he could not place him. "Did I have reason to bite it?" he asked.
"Eh?" The man suddenly gave a barking laugh. "I suppose that is a matter of opinion. But we were even; I spanked you properly." He turned to Sir Isaac. "Is Malath going to be here?"
"He told me that he would make the effort. He should be along shortly."
Phipps threw himself in the other chair and drummed on the arms of it. "Well, I suppose we must wait, though I don't see the need of his attending. There has been much too much delay now-we should have had this meeting last night."
Sir Isaac managed to drag a shocked tone out of his voder. "Last night? With a guest newly arrived?"
Phipps shrugged. "Never mind." He turned back to Don. "How did you like your dinner, son?"
"Very much."
"My wife cooked it. She's busy in the lab now, but you'll meet her later. Top flight chemist-in or out of the kitchen."
"I'd like to thank her," Don said sincerely. "Did you say lab'?"
"Eh? Yes, yes-quite a place. You'll see it later. Some of the best talent on Venus here. The Federation's loss is our gain."
The questions that immediately popped into Don's mind were held up; someone, something was coming in. Don's eyes widened when he saw that it was a Martian's "pram"-the self-propelled personal environment without which a Martian cannot live either on Earth or Venus. The little car wheeled in and joined the circle; the figure inside raised itself to a sitting position with the aid of its powered artificial exoskeleton, tried feebly to spread its pseudowings and spoke, its thin, tired voice amplified through a speaking system. "Malath da Thon greets you, my friends."
Phipps stood up. "Malath old boy, you should be back in your tank. You'll kill yourself exerting like this."
"I shall live as long as is necessary."
"Here's the Harvey kid. Looks like his old man, doesn't he?"
Sir Isaac, shocked by such casualness, intervened with a formal introduction. Don tried feverishly to recall more than two words of High Martian, gave up and let it go with, "I'm glad to know you, sir."
"The honor is mine," answered the tired voice. " `A tall father casts a long shadow.' "
Don wondered what to answer while reflecting that the rowdy lack of manners of the move-overs had its points. Phipps broke in with, "Well, let's get down to business before Malath wears himself out. Sir Isaac?"
"Very well. Donald, you know that you are welcome in my house."
"Uh-why, yes, Sir Isaac, thank you."
"You know that I urged you to visit me before I knew aught of you but your parentage and your own good spirit."
"Yes, sir, you asked me to look you up. And I tried to, I really did-but I didn't know where you had landed. I was just getting organized to do a little detective work on it when the Greenies landed. I'm sorry." Don felt vaguely uncomfortable, knowing that he had put the matter off until he had a favor to ask.
"And I tried to find you, Donald-and was caught by the same mischance. Most recently, by rumors that are carried on the mist, did I discover where you were and what you were doing." Sir Isaac paused as if he found the choice of words difficult. "Knowing that this house is yours, knowing that you were welcome in any case, can you forgive me when you discover you were summoned also for a most
practical reason?"
Don decided that this called for "true speech." " `How can the eyes offend the tail? Or father offend son?' What can I do to help, Sir Isaac? I had already gathered that something was up."
"How shall I begin? Should I speak of your Cyrus Buchanan who died far from his people, yet died happily since he had made us his people, too? Or should I speak of the strange and complicated customs -of your own people wherein you sometimes-or so it appears to us-cause the jaw to bite its own leg? Or should I discuss directly the events that have happened here since first you and I shared mud in the sky?" ; 4
Phipps stirred uneasily. "Let me handle it. Sir Isaac. Remember that this young man and I are of the same race. We won't have to beat around the bush; I can put it up to him in two words. It isn't complicated."
Sir Isaac lowered his massive head. "As you wish, my friend."
Phipps turned to Don. "Young fellow, you didn't know it, but when your parents called you home to Mars, you were a courier with a message."
Don looked at him sharply. "But I did know it." His mind raced ahead, adjusting himself to this new situation.
"You did? Well, that's fine! Let's have it, then."
"Have what?"
"The ring-the ring, of course. Give it to us."
XV "Judge Not According to the Appearance"
JOHN VII:24
"WAIT a minute," Don protested. "You're mixed up. I know what ring you mean, all right, but it wasn't the ring; it was the paper that it was wrapped in. And the I.B.I. got that."
Phipps looked perplexed, then laughed. "They did, eh? Then they made the same mistake you did. But it's the ring itself that is important. Let's have it."
"You must be mistaken," Don answered slowly. "Or maybe we aren't talking about the same ring." He thought about it. "It's possible that the I.B.I. swapped rings before the package ever reached me. But it's a dead cinch that the ring that was delivered to me couldn't have contained a message. It was transparent plastic-styrene, probably-and there wasn't even a fly speck in it. No message. No way to hide a message."
Phipps shrugged impatiently. "Don't quibble with me as to whether or not a message could be concealed in the ring-it's the right ring; be sure of that. The I.B.I. didn't switch rings-we know."