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undeniably desks--arrangedside by side instead of one over the other. There were chairs andstools, no perches, but that was to be expected in a wingless society.And it was noisy. Even though the little machines had stopped clatteringwhen she came in, a distant roaring continued, as if, concealedsomewhere close by, larger, more sinister machines continued their work.A peculiar smell hung in the air--not unpleasant, exactly, but strange.

  She sniffed inquiringly.

  "Ink," Stet said.

  "What's that?"

  "Oh, some stuff the boys in the back shop use. The feature writers," hewent on quickly, before she could ask what the "back shop" was, "haveprivate offices where they can perch in comfort."

  He led the way down a corridor, opening doors. "Our drama editor." Heindicated a middle-aged man with faded blue feathers, who hung headdownward from his perch. "On the lobster-trick last night writing areview, so he's catching fifty-one twinkles now."

  "Enchanted, Miss Morfatch," the critic said, opening one bright eye. "Bya curious chance, it so happens that tonight I have two tickets to--"

  "Tonight she's going out with me."

  "Well, I can get tickets to any play, any night. And you haven't laughedunless you've seen a Terrestrial drama. Just say the word, chick."

  Stet got Tarb out of the office and slammed the door shut. "Over here isthe office of our food editor," he said, breathing hard, "whom you'll beexpected to give a claw to now and then, since your jobs overlap. Can'tintroduce you to him right now, though, because he's in the hospitalwith ptomaine poisoning. And this is the office you'll share withDrosmig."

  Stet opened the door.

  Underneath the perch, Senbot Drosmig, dean of Fizbian journalists, layon the rug in a sodden stupor, letters to the editor scattered thicklyover his shriveled person. The whole room reeked unmistakably ofcaffeine.

  Tarb shrank back and twined both feet around Stet's. This time he didnot repulse her. "But how can a--an educated, cultured man like SenbotDrosmig sink to such depths?"

  "It's hard for anyone with even the slightest inclination toward thestuff to resist it here," Stet replied somberly. "I can't deny it; thesale of caffeine is absolutely unrestricted on Earth. Coffee shops allover the place. Coffee served freely at even the best homes. And notonly coffee ... caffeine is insiduously present in other of theirpopular beverages."

  Her eyes bulged sideways. "But how can a so-called civilized people beso depraved?"

  "Caffeine doesn't seem to affect them the way it does us. Their nervoussystems are so very uncomplicated, one almost envies them."

  Drosmig stirred restlessly under his blanket of correspondence. "Goback ... Fizbus," he muttered. "Warn you ... 'fore ... too late ... likeme."

  Tarb's rose-pink feathers stood on end. She looked apprehensively atStet.

  "Senbot can't go back because he's in no shape to take the intersteldrive." The young editor was obviously annoyed. "He's old and he's aphysical wreck. But that certainly doesn't apply to you, Miss Morfatch."He looked long and hard into her eyes.

  "Few years on planet," Drosmig groaned, struggling to his wings, "'plyto anybody."

  His feathers, Tarb noticed, were an ugly, darkish brown. She had neverseen any one that color before, but she'd heard rumors that too muchcaffeine could do that to you. At least she hoped it was only thecaffeine.

  "For your information, he was almost as bad as this when he came!" Stetsnapped. "Frankly, that's why he was sent here--to get rid of hisunfortunate addiction. Grupe had no idea, when he assigned him to Earth,that there was caffeine on the planet."

  The old man gave a sardonic laugh as he clumsily made his way to theperch and gripped it with quivering toes.

  "That is, I don't _think_ he knew," Stet said dubiously.

  Tarb reached over and picked a letter off the floor. The Fizbiancharacters were clumsy and ill-made, as if someone had formed them withhis feet. Could there be such poverty here that individuals existed whocould not afford a scripto? The letter didn't read like any that hadever been printed in the column--at least none that had been picked upin the Fizbus edition:

  * * * * *

  _New York_

  _Dear Senbot Drosmig:_

  _I am a subaltern clerk in the shipping department of the FizbEarth Trading Company, Inc. Although I have held this post for only three months, I have already won the respect and esteem of my superiors through my diligence and good character. My habits are exemplary: I do not gamble, sing, or take caffeine._

  _Earlier today, while engaged in evening meditation at my modest apartments, I was aroused by a peremptory knock at the door. I flung it open. A native stood there with a small case in his hand._

  _"Is the house on fire?" I asked, wondering which of my few humble possessions I should rescue first._

  _"No," he said. "I would like to interest you in some brushes."_

  _"Are the offices of the FizbEarth Trading Company, Inc., on fire?"_

  _"Not to my knowledge," he replied, opening his case. "Now I have here a very nice hairbrush--"_

  _I wanted to give him every chance. "Have you come to tell me of any disaster relative to the FizbEarth Trading Company, to myself, or to anyone or anything else with whom or with which I am connected?"_

  _"Why, no," he said. "I have come to sell you brushes. Now here is a little number I know you'll like. My company developed it with you folks specially in mind. It's--"_

  _"Do you know, sir, that you have wantonly interrupted me in the midst of my meditations, which constitutes an established act of privacy violation?"_

  _"Is that a fact? Now this little item is particularly designed for brushing the wings--"_

  _At that point, I knocked him down and punched him into insensibility with my feet. Then I summoned the police. To my surprise, they arrested me instead of him._

  _I am writing this letter from jail. I do not like to ask my employers to get me out because, even though I am innocent, you know how a thing like this can leave a smudge on the record._

  _What shall I do?_

  _Anxiously yours,_

  _Fruzmus Bloxx_

  * * * * *

  "What should he do?" Tarb asked, handing Stet the paper. "Or is thequestion academic by now? The letter's five days old."

  Stet sighed. "I'll find out whether the consulate has been notified.Native police usually do that, you know. Very thoughtful fellows. Ifthis Bloxx hasn't been bailed out already, I'll see that he is."

  "But how will we answer his letter? Advise him to sue for false arrest?"

  Stet smiled. "But he has no grounds for false arrest. He is guilty ofassault. The native was entirely within his rights in trying to sell hima brush. Now--" he put out a foot--"brace yourself. Privacy violation isnot a crime on Terra. It is perfectly legal. In fact, it does not existas such!"

  At that point, everything went maroon.

  When Tarb came to, she found herself lying upon Drosmig's desk. Askin-faced native woman was offering her water and clucking.

  "Are you all right, Tarb--Miss Morfatch?" Stet demanded anxiously.

  "Yes. I--I think so," she murmured, raising herself to a crouch.

  "Better ... have died," Drosmig groaned from his perch. "Fateworse ... death ... awaits you."

  Tarb tried to smile. "Sorry to have been so much trouble." She stuck outher tongue at both Stet and the native.

  The woman drew in her breath.

  "Miss Morfatch," Stet reminded Tarb, "sticking out the tongue is not anapology on Terra; it is an insult. Fortunately, Miss Snow happens to beperhaps the only Terran who would not be offended. She has becomethoroughly acquainted with us and our odd little customs. She even--" hebeamed at the Terran female--"has learned to speak our language."

  "Hail to thee, O visitor from the stars," Miss Snow said in Fizbian."May thy sojourn
upon Earth be an incessant delight and may peace andplenty shower their gifts in abundance upon thee."

  Tarb put her hand to her aching head. "I'm very glad to meet you," shesaid, glad she did not have to get up to make the ritual _entrechats_.

  "Miss Snow is my right foot," Stet said, "but I'm going to be noble andlet her act as your secretary until you can learn to operate atypewriter."

  "Secretary? Typewriter?"

  "Well, you see, there are no scriptos or superscriptos on Earth and wecan't import any from Home because the