"Slowly, I pray," said Mjipa.
The man started slowly: "I said, good afternoon. May your liver be light ..." Then the speech became rapid again, losing Mjipa. After further cross talk, Mjipa understood that the man was asking if he were a Terran.
"We get but few in these parts," said the Krishnan. "Betimes they come disguised as natives of our world, with painted skins and simulated smellers. But now any doodle can tell by the timbre of the speaker's voice whether 'tis a truly human being or some alien creature from another world. Be that strange skin and hair ye flaunt your natural parts, or the result of dyes and curlers?"
Mjipa sneaked a quick look at his bilingual dictionary. "Natural," he said gruffly.
"Then answer me another: have ye immortal souls as we have, which, after ye die and are punished in Hishkak for your sins, live on in other mortal bodies?"
Mjipa: "It is disputed question among my fellow Terrans. I not know the answer."
"How many gods have ye?"
"Opinion varies on that, too. Some believe in one, some in three, some in hundreds, and some in none at all."
"Have ye ghosts and demons, as we have?"
"Some believe in them. Look, my friend, I am not learned man; merely a minor official. Some of my fellow Terrans can answer your questions much better."
As the Krishnan turned away, abandoning his theological inquisition, Mjipa breathed a sigh of relief. The customs inspection finished, the officials went away in their boat. The Jafez plodded under sweeps into the harbor and tied up. Sailors departed whooping in search of amusement; longshoremen began unloading cargo.
When Mjipa left the ship with his duffel bag slung from one shoulder, he saw what the street cars were. A pair of qong-wood rails, about a meter apart, ran down the middle of the waterfront street. On these stood four boxlike vehicles, painted in patterns of scarlet and blue and gold, contrasting with the drab, uniform beige of the houses. Each car stood on four flanged wheels. Each box contained a forward-facing seat for two. Behind the riders, a crossbar stretched across the back of the vehicle to provide the carman with a purchase.
Mjipa approached the first vehicle, decorated in green with orange polka dots. A naked Kalwmian appeared, to rattle Khaldoni at Mjipa. When the Terran looked blank, the Krishnan spoke slowly, in broken Gozashtandou: "Would—would Your Excellency—ah—like ride?"
"Can you take me to Irants's Inn?"
"Aye, my lord, that I can. Track passes nigh unto door. Pray get ye in."
"How much?" An old Krishnan hand, Mjipa knew better than to accept the offer without a firm advance agreement.
After chaffering, they agreed, and Mjipa climbed in. The carman pushed the vehicle along the track until they came to a side street. Here the track forked, one branch entering the side street. The fork had no movable switch. Mjipa, a railroad buff in his youth, wondered how the carman would make the turn.
The Krishnan put a foot against the cross-member at the lower rear of the body and pulled back on his handlebar, so that the front wheels rose from the track. Then the carman swiveled the body far enough so that, when he lowered the front wheels, they came down on the curved track. The car rumbled peacefully around the curve.
Few pedestrians were abroad. Mjipa guessed that most were enjoying siestas during the heat of the day; as he later learned, this was the dinner hour. An occasional Kalwmian rolled by on a scooter, this simple vehicle being common in all the major cities of the Triple Seas. The few who passed the car glanced at Mjipa, whereupon some of them started, gasped, and stared. To avoid such attention, Mjipa finally pulled the curtains, despite the heat, across the side windows.
When they passed large private houses, spurs of track branched off and entered these buildings. Evidently the richer citizens had their private muscle-powered street cars. Presently another car came round a corner, headed straight towards Mjipa's vehicle.
The cars halted a few meters apart, and the two carmen began shouting. Mjipa stuck his head out of the side to ask what betid.
"I have right of way!" said the carman. "But yonder dolt insists that I, not he, back up to the siding, on fribbling grounds his passenger doth outrank mine. I'll show the losel—"
"Look," said Mjipa, wrestling with the language. "Run car up spur, like this one, and let him pass."
" 'Twere not right!" yelled the carman. "Spurs are private property. 'Twere trespass! Besides, I'll not yield a single yestu to yonder scrowle—"
"Go up the spur!" roared Mjipa, losing-patience. "I'll take—take—" He could not think of the word for "responsibility"; but the carman, intimidated, obeyed. The other car rolled past. Its carman made a rude gesture, which brought a new spate of shouted insults from Mjipa's Krishnan. None objected as Mjipa's man backed out on the main line and resumed his course.
At Irants's Inn, identified by an animal skull over the door, Mjipa paid off his carman and lugged his bag in. An elderly Krishnan sat on the floor behind a low table littered with tally sheets.
"Master Irants?" said Mjipa.
The man looked up, took in Mjipa's height and coloring, started visibly, and shrank back. "Be ye a demon, come to drag me off to Hishkak? I have been a good man! I have not cheated my guests! I have not beaten my wife!"
"I am glad to hear of your virtues, but I am no demon. Here!" Mjipa handed over the emerald-green medallion. "This tells who am."
The man puzzled over the inscriptions."A Terran, ye say? Methinks ye be the first of your kind to honor my establishment. There are those who say all Terrans be in sooth but demons feigning mortal guise, and that the worlds whence these creatures pretend to come are nought but the lamellated hells."
"Look," said Mjipa, controlling his temper. "I want room, understand? Can pay, see? I promise no magical stunts here."
"Aye, sir." Mjipa could have sworn that the Krishnan's teeth chattered. "I'll give you Number Fourteen, an it please Your Lordship."
"I sure it will. Now tell me, who is the Heshvavu's first officer—he who does the daily routine of ruling? I not know your word for it."
"Oh, ye must mean the Phathvum, Lord Chanapar."
"I want speak to him. How to do?"
"Seek ye the Phathvum's secretary and beg an audience."
Several days later, Mjipa was ushered into the office of the vizier or premier, Phathvum Chanapar, in the rambling stucco palace. As usual, Mjipa had been required to leave his sword at the entrance to the building.
Chanapar was that rarity, a fat Krishnan, sitting crosslegged on a cushion behind the usual short-legged desk-table and smoking a long Krishnan cigar. Terrans had introduced tobacco to Krishna before the technological blockade took effect. The minister pointed to another cushion, saying: "Sit you, sir." He handed his secretary Mjipa's identification medallion, who in turn gave it back to Mjipa.
Mjipa folded his long legs, imitating the pose of the minister. Having grown up in a house well equipped with chairs, Mjipa found discomfort in kneeling, squatting, or sitting cross-legged; but he endured his pains as part of his job.
"Well, sir?" said the minister. "We get few Terrans in these purlieus. You are in sooth the first in several moons."
"Do they give any trouble?" asked Mjipa, whose Khaldonian had improved. He still stumbled, made mistakes, and groped for words; but few could have mastered the tongue so well in so short a time. If he had not had a natural gift for languages, he could not have held his post.
"Nay, not to speak of," said Chanapar. "So that they go about their business and disturb us not by spreading thwart heretical notions, the tranquility of our administration to disturb, we molest them not."