evening the program of affairs to be discussed between the two races was being handled in a more-or-less orderly and coordinated fashion.
That night there was a grand welcoming banquet in Ganyville, vegetarian of course, in which words, and wine flowed freely. After the meal and still more speeches were over and the two races had begun mixing and socializing, Hunt found himself, glass in hand, standing to one side of the room with three Ganymeans-Valio and Kralom, two of the crew officers from the Shapieron, and Strelsya, a female administrator. Valio was explaining his confusion qver some of the things he had learned that day.
“Ethmanuel Crow, I think he said his name was,” Valio told them. “He was with the delegation from the place you live in, Vic-USA. Said he was from Washington. . . State Department or something. The thing that puzzled me was when he said he was a Red Indian.”
Hunt propped himself casually against the table behind him and sipped his scotch.
“Why, what’s the problem?” he asked.
“Well, we met the Indian government spokesman later on, and he said India isn’t anywhere near the USA,” Valio explained. “So how could Crow be an Indian?”
“That’s a different Indian,” Hunt replied, fearing as he spoke that the conversation was about to get itself into a tangle. Sure enough, Kralom had something to add.
“I met someone who was a West Indian, but he said he came from the east.”
“There is an East Indies. . .” Strelsya began.
“I know, but that’s way over in the west,” Kralom said.
Hunt groaned inwardly and reached in his pocket for his cigarette pack while he collected his thoughts. Before he could inject a word of explanation, Valio resumed.
“I thought that maybe when he said he was a Red Indian he might be really from China because they’re supposed to be red and they’re not far from India, but it turns out they’re yellow.”
“Perhaps he was Russian,” Kralom suggested. “Somebody told me they’re red too.”
“No, they’re pink,” Strelsya declared firmly. She motioned her head in the direction of a short, heavily built man in a black suit
with his back toward them, talking to another mixed group. “There-he’s one if I remember rightly. See for yourself.”
“I’ve met him,” Kralom said. “He’s a White Russian. He said so, but he doesn’t look white.”
The three aliens looked imploringly toward Hunt for some words of wisdom to make sense of it all.
“Not to worry-it’s all hangovers from a long time ago. The whole world’s getting so mixed up together now that I really don’t suppose it’ll matter much longer,” he said lamely.
By the early hours of the morning, while a thousand lights still twinkled on the shadows of the surrounding hills, all was quiet, except for occasional scuffling noises and every now and again an ominous crash of bulk against timber, as gigantic frames tottered unsteadily but contentedly to bed through the narrow alleys between the chalets.
The next morning, the august visitors from every corner of the globe began departing to give Ganyville a week of undisturbed rest and relaxation. A light schedule of discussions with visiting groups of Earthmen, mainly scientists, had been arranged for the week and some news features were laid on for the benefit of the public; for the most part, however, the Giants were left free to enjoy the feeling of having a world under their feet again.
Many simply spent their time stretched out on the grass, basking in a splendor that was, to them, tropical. Others walked for hours along the perimeter, stopping all the time to savor the air as if making sure they were not dreaming it all and standing and staring in unconcealed delight at the lake, the hills, and the snowcapped peaks of the distant Alps. Others became addicted to the Earthnet terminals in the chalets, and displayed an insatiable appetite for information on every facet of Earth, its people, its history, its geography, and everything else there was to know about it. To facilitate this, ZORAC had been connected into the Earth-net system, enabling an enormous interchange of the accumulated knowledge of two civilizations.