was in its original position. Then the two Bruuchians clambered down, hand over hand. Crowell followed with a little less confidence.
During the whole process, Waldo stood to one side, looking rather lost. The old one addressed Crowell in the informal mode, and Crowell replied with what Waldo recognized as a polite refusal. “Uh—what was that all about?”
“We were invited to the wake—you know, recite all the good deeds the old gal was responsible for and help decide where to lean the body. I told them no, thanks. These affairs last all day, and I’ve got an appointment. Besides, I’ve always gotten the feeling that having humans present puts a damper on the festivities. They have to invite you, of course, if you’re anywhere nearby when the thing starts.”
“And we’re about as near as anybody’s ever been. Glad you didn’t accept for us—this whole business has gotten me a little queasy.”
“Well, we can leave any time. Baluurn’s staying, naturally.”
“Let’s go.”
The sun was still blazing overhead when they stepped out of the hut. The whole experience couldn’t have taken more than half an hour. They walked down the dusty road a few meters before Waldo spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“That sample you gave me… what makes you think they won’t find out you took it?”
“Don’t be so damned furtive! We’re just tourists, right?
“You’d need a magnifying glass to find where I made the incision. Besides, I took it from one of the least accessible corpses, right up against a wall; with their taboo against moving them, we’re safe.”
“Well, I’ll have to admit it is a windfall. Maybe we can finally figure out how—say, you were there when the woman died! Did you see anything?”
Crowell stared at the ground for a few steps before replying. “I was leaving, backing out; I was sure they didn’t want me around. But they just went up to her and looked at her and said it was done. Whatever kind of embalming they do, they must do it while the person’s still alive.” Crowell shuddered in the heat. “They didn’t even touch her.”
8.
Crowell had deliberately ignored Dr. Norman’s advice, and had made an appointment with the ambassador in the early evening. He expected that the man would be pretty intoxicated by then. A strikingly handsome man—aristocratic features, gray hair flowing onto broad shoulders—answered the door.
“Ambassador Fitz-Jones?”
“Yes… oh, you must be Dr. Crowell. Come in, come in.” He didn’t seem too far gone.
Crowell walked into an elegantly appointed room, which the Otto part of his mind identified as being furnished in American Provincial, late twentieth century. Even if they were fakes, the shipping costs were staggering to contemplate.
Fitz-Jones indicated an amorphous leather-covered chair, and Crowell allowed it to swallow him. “Let me get you a drink. You may have brandy and water, brandy and soda, brandy and juice, brandy and ice, brandy and brandy, or—” he gave a conspiratorial wink—“a bit of Chateau de Rothschild burgundy, ‘23.”
“Good God!” Even Crowell knew what that vintage represented.
“Somehow a small cask of it was mistakenly delivered here, instead of a case of badly needed immigration forms.” He shook his head gravely. “These things are inevitable con-carp—’scuse me—concomitants of trying to operate within the framework of an interstellar bureaucracy. We learn to adjust.”
Crowell revised his earlier estimate. Fitz-Jones could well have been adjusting all day. “That sounds wonderful.” He watched the man’s careful steps and marveled at the human organism’s ability to cope with proven toxins.
He came back with two highball glasses filled with the deep red wine. “No proper glassware, of course. Perhaps it’s just as well. ‘23 doesn’t travel well, you know—and it won’t keep: have to drink it up quickly.”
It tasted quite good to Crowell, but Otto could tell that it was
During the whole process, Waldo stood to one side, looking rather lost. The old one addressed Crowell in the informal mode, and Crowell replied with what Waldo recognized as a polite refusal. “Uh—what was that all about?”
“We were invited to the wake—you know, recite all the good deeds the old gal was responsible for and help decide where to lean the body. I told them no, thanks. These affairs last all day, and I’ve got an appointment. Besides, I’ve always gotten the feeling that having humans present puts a damper on the festivities. They have to invite you, of course, if you’re anywhere nearby when the thing starts.”
“And we’re about as near as anybody’s ever been. Glad you didn’t accept for us—this whole business has gotten me a little queasy.”
“Well, we can leave any time. Baluurn’s staying, naturally.”
“Let’s go.”
The sun was still blazing overhead when they stepped out of the hut. The whole experience couldn’t have taken more than half an hour. They walked down the dusty road a few meters before Waldo spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“That sample you gave me… what makes you think they won’t find out you took it?”
“Don’t be so damned furtive! We’re just tourists, right?
“You’d need a magnifying glass to find where I made the incision. Besides, I took it from one of the least accessible corpses, right up against a wall; with their taboo against moving them, we’re safe.”
“Well, I’ll have to admit it is a windfall. Maybe we can finally figure out how—say, you were there when the woman died! Did you see anything?”
Crowell stared at the ground for a few steps before replying. “I was leaving, backing out; I was sure they didn’t want me around. But they just went up to her and looked at her and said it was done. Whatever kind of embalming they do, they must do it while the person’s still alive.” Crowell shuddered in the heat. “They didn’t even touch her.”
8.
Crowell had deliberately ignored Dr. Norman’s advice, and had made an appointment with the ambassador in the early evening. He expected that the man would be pretty intoxicated by then. A strikingly handsome man—aristocratic features, gray hair flowing onto broad shoulders—answered the door.
“Ambassador Fitz-Jones?”
“Yes… oh, you must be Dr. Crowell. Come in, come in.” He didn’t seem too far gone.
Crowell walked into an elegantly appointed room, which the Otto part of his mind identified as being furnished in American Provincial, late twentieth century. Even if they were fakes, the shipping costs were staggering to contemplate.
Fitz-Jones indicated an amorphous leather-covered chair, and Crowell allowed it to swallow him. “Let me get you a drink. You may have brandy and water, brandy and soda, brandy and juice, brandy and ice, brandy and brandy, or—” he gave a conspiratorial wink—“a bit of Chateau de Rothschild burgundy, ‘23.”
“Good God!” Even Crowell knew what that vintage represented.
“Somehow a small cask of it was mistakenly delivered here, instead of a case of badly needed immigration forms.” He shook his head gravely. “These things are inevitable con-carp—’scuse me—concomitants of trying to operate within the framework of an interstellar bureaucracy. We learn to adjust.”
Crowell revised his earlier estimate. Fitz-Jones could well have been adjusting all day. “That sounds wonderful.” He watched the man’s careful steps and marveled at the human organism’s ability to cope with proven toxins.
He came back with two highball glasses filled with the deep red wine. “No proper glassware, of course. Perhaps it’s just as well. ‘23 doesn’t travel well, you know—and it won’t keep: have to drink it up quickly.”
It tasted quite good to Crowell, but Otto could tell that it was
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