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.”