Chiddy whistled, and the stuff came off her, rushing back into the box. It was . . . insects. Beetles or something. She leaned against the wall, shuddering. “What . . . what . . .”
“So very sorry,” said Chiddy, his mouth parts shivering. “Oh, so very sorry. The iglak was supposed to be removed. I told them twice. Remove the iglak.”
“What in hell is it?” asked Chad, standing wide-eyed behind him.
“They,” said Chiddy. “A small life form that lives on the shed skin of other life forms. You have dust mites, too small to see. We have iglak, necessary to get under the carapace and around all the joints where water may not take away the soil. We open the box, they come out and go all over us, eating every dead flake of integument, then we whistle and they go back to the box, then we shower in water. Oh, I am so sorry you were frightened, dear Benita.”
He left her there, and she took the opportunity to undress and shake her clothing. The iglak had all gone, but she still felt itchy. She put her clothes in a cabinet, stepped into the booth and turned on the water, if it was water. When she turned it off, it dried, almost at once, no towels needed. She realized for the first time that the Pistach were far lighter than water. They would float in a tub.
That evening, several members of the family came to the house to wish the visitors well. They stayed only briefly except for Chiddy’s nootch, Varsi, who lingered to talk with Benita through her own translation device. She was very proud of Chiddy, Benita heard it in every word she said. “Ai has gone far,” ke said. “Ai is the best one I have nootched, ever. Needed so little, ke did! Only a word, now and then. No sleep teaching. No removals of bad traits.”
“You can remove bad traits?”
“Some. If they have not gone too deep. Nootchi in your race cannot do this?”
“Regrettably, no. I wish we could.”
Benita was so touched by Varsi that she gave her the scarf from her own outfit, a red one, knowing this color could be worn by a second-level Pistach.
Each Pistach who came brought something pleasant to eat or drink. As the evening wore on, Benita guessed that Chiddy had spiked Carlos’s tea with the proposed euphoric, for he became mild and mannerly, even seeming to be interested in what was going on.
“Are those iglak things trained?” he asked Chiddy. “I mean, do you train them to answer the whistle that way?”
Chiddy made his negative gesture, his half headshake, half lowered shoulder. “It is the sound their nootchi make, from the nest, recalling the workers. The box is their nest. Inside it is very complicated, with many chambers. Are you interested in such things?”
Carlos nodded. “I was just thinking, that’d go over great on Earth. At a spa, like. You’d have to have a cabinet that left people’s heads out, though.”
Chiddy said thoughtfully, “You may be right. They are very easy to breed and control. Perhaps we will attempt to export them.”
Vess announced that they were invited to the House of the Fresco on the following morning, to see the cleaning, which was likely to take all day.
“You’re terribly worried about it,” Benita said to Chiddy. “Aren’t you?”
“I have reason to believe,” he murmured, “that the actual paintings may differ in details from what we have learned of the content.”
“Would this be a tragedy? Which takes precedence, your teachings, or the content of the Fresco?”
“Ah, Benita. I have asked myself that question, over and over. The Fresco has given us legitimacy, the way your holy scriptures give you legitimacy. How often have I heard your legislators quoting Scripture to prove almost anything. I have heard your people speak of ‘two millennia of tradition’ or even, ‘four millennia of culture.’ Unlike your Scripture, the Fresco does not govern our belief about the universe, for Aiton is Aiton, no matter what being paints what or what writer writes what or what philosopher says what. In the nebulae, in the clusters, in the spaces between the galaxies, no matter what persons think, Aiton is still Aiton.