He turned his attention back to the Hroshii. . . and again his eyebrows went up. The Hroshii were not here to establish relations with Earth; they were here to rescue one of their own. According to Dr. Ftaeml, they were convinced that Terra was holding this Hroshia and were demanding that she be surrendered.
Greenberg felt as if he had blundered into a bad melodrama. These people with the asthmatic name had picked the wrong planet for cops-and-robbers nonsense. A non-human on Earth without a passport, without a dossier in the hands of the department, without an approved reason for visiting Earth, would be as helpless as a bride without a ration book. She would be picked up in no time. . . idiot’s delight! she could not even get through quarantine.
Why didn’t the boss simply tell them to take their wagon and go home?
Besides, how did they figure she had reached the surface of Earth? Walked? Or taken a swan dive? Star ships did not land; they were served by shuttles. He could just see her tackling the purser of one of those shuttles: “Excuse me, sir, but I am fleeing from my husband hi a distant part of the Galaxy. Do you mind if I hide under this seat and sneak down to your planet?”
“No tickee, no washee”. . . that’s what the purser would say. Those shuttle companies hated deadheads; Greenberg could feel it every time he presented his own diplomatic pass.
Something was niggling at him. . . then he remembered the boss’s inquiry; did Lummox have hands? He realized that the boss must have been wondering whether Lummox could be the missing Hroshia, since Hroshii, according to Ftaeml, had eight legs. Greenberg chuckled. Lummox was not the boy to build and operate star ships, not he nor any of his cousins. Of course the boss had not seen Lummox and did not know how preposterous it was.
And besides that, Lummox had been here more than a hundred years. That would make him very late for supper.
The real question was what to do with the Hroshii now that we were in contact with them. Anything from “Out There” was interesting, educational, and profitable to mankind, once it was analyzed. . . and a race that had its own interstellar drive was sure to be all of that, squared and cubed. No doubt the boss was kidding them along while developing permanent relations.
Very well, it was up to Greenberg to foster that angle and help the boss get past his emotional handicap in dealing through a Rargyllian.
He skimmed the rest of the report. What he had learned so far he had gotten from the synopsis; the rest was a transcript of Ftaeml’s flowery circumlocutions. Then he handed the jacket back to the file and tackled the boss’s work.
Mr. Kiku announced himself by looking over his shoulder and saying, “That basket is as full as ever.”
“Oh. Howdy, boss. Yes, but think of the shape it would have been in if I hadn’t torn up every second item without reading it.” Greenberg moved from the chair.
Mr. Kiku nodded. “I know. Sometimes I just check ‘disapproved’ on all the odd-numbered ones.”
“Feeling better?”
“Ready to spit in his face. What’s a snake got that I haven’t got more of?”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Dr. Morgan is very adept. Try him sometime if your nerves ever act up.”
Greenberg grinned. “Boss, the only thing that bothers me is insomnia during working hours. I can’t sleep at my desk the way I used to.”
“That’s the earliest symptom. The mind mechanics will get you yet.” Mr. Kiku glanced at the clock. “No word from our friend with the animated hair?”
“Not yet.” Greenberg told about the quarantine for the Ariel and what he had done. Mr. Kiku nodded, which was equivalent to a citation in front of the regiment in some circles; Greenberg felt a warm glow and went on to tell about the revision in the order for Lummox. He sidled up to it self-consciously.
“Boss, sitting in that chair puts a different slant on things.”
“So I discovered, years ago.”
“Um, yes. While I was there I got to thinking about that intervention matter.”