“We thank you.”
A daughter, a son, a granddaughter, a grandson, a great granddaughter, a great grandson—counting Sir Isaac himself, a four generation welcome, only one short of maximum dragon protocol; Don was overwhelmed. He knew that Sir Isaac was friendly to him, but he decided that this degree of ceremony must be a compliment to his parents.
“My Father and my Mother thank you all for the kindness you do to their egg.”
“As the first egg, so the last. We are very happy to have you here, Donald.”
A dragon visitor, honored by an escort, would have made a leisurely progress to the family seat flanked by the family members. But a dragon’s leisurely progress is about twice as fast as a brisk walk for a man. Sir Isaac settled himself down and said, “Suppose you borrow my legs, dear boy; we have considerable distance to go.”
“Oh, I can walk”
“Please—I insist.”
“Well… ”
” ‘Upsy-daisy’! then—if I recall the idiom correctly.”
Don climbed aboard and settled himself just abaft the last pair of eyestalks; they turned around and surveyed him. He found that Sir Isaac had thoughtfully had two rings riveted to his neck plates to let him hold on. “All set?”
“Yes, indeed.”
The dragon reared himself up again and they set out, with Don feeling like Toomai-of-the-Elephants.
They went up a crowded dragon path so old that it was impossible to tell whether it was an engineering feat or a natural conformation. The path paralleled the shore for a mile or so; they passed dragons at work in their watery fields, then the path swung inland. Shortly, in the dry uplands, his party turned out of the traffic into a tunnel. This was definitely art not nature; it was one of the sort the floor of which slides quietly and rapidly away in the direction one walks (provided the walker is a dragon or weighs as much as a dragon); their ambling gait was multiplied by a considerable factor. Don could not judge the true speed nor the distance covered.
They came at last out into a great hall, large even for dragons; the flowing floor merged into the floor of the hall imperceptibly and stopped. Here were gathered the rest of the tribe symbolized by the seven who had met him. But Don was not required then to rack his brain for compliments, but was taken, still in accordance with etiquette, at once to his own chambers to rest and refresh himself.
The chambers were merely comfortable by Venerian standards; to Don, of course, they were huge. The wallowing trough in the center of the main room was less than six feet deep only at the ramp and it was long enough for him to take several strokes—which he did very soon with great pleasure. The water was as pure as the Sea he had just crossed was dirty and it was, as nearly as he could tell, heated for him to exactly the 98.6° of a human’s blood.
He turned over on his back and floated, staring up into the artificial mist that concealed the remote ceiling. This, he thought, was certainly the life! It was the best bath he had had since—well, since that dilly of a bath in the Caravansary back in New Chicago, how long ago? Don thought with a sudden twinge of nostalgia that his class in school had graduated long since.
Growing tired even of such luxury he climbed out, then took his clothes and scrubbed out ancient dirt as best he could, while wishing for detergent, or even for the grey homemade soap the farmers used. He paddled around in bare feet, looking for somewhere to hang his wash. In the “small” retiring room he stopped suddenly.
Supper was ready. Someone had set a table for him, complete to fine napery—a card table, it was, with “Grand Rapids” spelled out in its lines. The chairs drawn up to it actually did have “Grand Rapids” stamped into its under side; Don turned it over and looked.
The table had been set in accordance with human customs. True, the soup was in the coffee cup’ and the soup plate contained coffee, but Don was in no mood to care about such details—they were both hot. So was the sour bread toast and the scrambled eggs—shell eggs, if he was a judge.