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“I studied space dynamics, in all its phases, Gaean economics, the mathematical basis of trans-dimensional propulsion. I am familiar with Handbook to the Planets and Gaean Cosmography. In short, I am not just another dilettante! I am anxious to apply my knowledge to useful purposes.”
“Experience, my dear lady, has taught me a sad truth: time flows in one direction only! As the days pass none of us grows younger. Sometimes we postpone glorious schemes only to discover in the end that they never have materialized! Procrastination is the thief of life!”
“Now then!” cried Vita Palas. “Don’t you go slanging me, you raddled old hussy! I know your kind, all skin and spleen, and wrinkles to wrap over all! Your own morals are sewage, you with your dancing-boys and gigolos! Don’t you try slanging me any more, or I’ll snatch off your wig and really explain what I think of you! It will not be nice! It will turn your long nose blue!”
“Myron, be good enough to face facts. You have long celebrated the joys and romance of space travel. Now, I am out here in this interminable void and I ask myself: ‘Where is the joy? Where is the romance?’” Myron pointed to the observation port. “Look yonder! Observe the stars. Watch them drifting past. It is the most romantic spectacle of all!” Dame Hester shuddered. “The stars are far away. Space is dark and silent. Out there is where all the dead souls drift and wander.”
“That is a fine piece — very rare, very valuable! I make you a good price, because I like you!” “How can it be rare?” demanded Dame Hester. “I took it from this tray where there are thirty more just like it!” “You do not see with the eyes of a connoisseur! That is an image of the Garre Mountain effrit, who casts thunder stones. This piece is especially lucky and will win your gambles at the dogfights! Since I am poor and ignorant, I will let you have it for the laughable price of twenty sols!” Dame Hester stared at her in angry amazement. “It is true that I am laughing! Clearly you lack all
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Myron said that he knew nothing of ‘Hurlothrumbo’, or any other game. “I have noticed that when these games are played, money changes hands. If I played and won, it would give me no pleasure; but if I lost, I would be haunted by remorse. I would also feel foolish.” Schwatzendale showed his crooked grin. “You do not understand the joy of the hunt. To gamble is to play at prehistoric savagery.” “The metaphor is apt,” said Wingo. “The victor is a cannibal, feeding upon the substance of the victim.” “That is the thrust of our instincts!” Schwatzendale explained. “It is the contrast which generates
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“One final bit of advice: do not leave the market! If you visit the rum shacks along the docks, chances are you will be doped and robbed, if not worse. Even in the market you can’t relax. You may come upon a musician playing an accordion, while two pretty children dance and caper about. What charming little tykes, you think. About this time the boy turns a handspring and kicks you in the crotch with his iron-toed slipper. When you fall he sits on your head and pulls your nose, while the girl steals your purse; then they jump up and run away. Meanwhile the accordionist plays another tune, and
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Schwatzendale returned to the Glicca, unshipped the flitter, then summoned Myron. “Do you own a gun?” “No.” “It is time that you did.” Schwatzendale rummaged through a locker in the saloon and brought out a squat black gun, which he handed to Myron. “This is a Detractor Model Nine, the Blue Spot version, very useful. One of the passengers left it aboard. Can you use it?” “Certainly.” “It is now yours.” “Thank you. Who am I to shoot?” “Possibly no one. We’re going up to Mel, at the top of the scarp. Bring along the gun. We will be talking to the Meluli hetman and perhaps a few others. Keep your
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From the boy came a yammer of pleading: “My knife, my good knife! Oh where will I get another? Give me back my property!” Neither Myron nor Schwatzendale heeded the plea. From the shadows the boy called out in fury, “Ugly milk-fed tourists! Go back to your wallow! In two more seconds I would have had the squonk’s hide, and now I have lost my knife!” Myron and Schwatzendale returned to the flitter. As they flew back down to Sholo, Myron asked, “What is a ‘squonk’?” Schwatzendale reflected, then said at last, “I believe it to be some sort of hairless white rat.”
“Hmmf!” sniffed Vermyra. “Mirl has too much self-respect for a visit to such a place.” “Send me instead!” said Tibbet. “I have no self-respect whatever.” “Hush!” snapped Vermyra. “You should not talk like that, even in fun! One day someone whom you revere will hear you, and you will have lost your most precious possession.” “My what?” “By that, I mean your reputation!” “I will give the matter some thought,” said Tibbet.
Barthold’s response was a snort of disdain and a twitch of his staff. Moncrief departed the hold and returned to the saloon. Schwatzendale stepped from the galley, where he had been testing Wingo’s special Sea Island Punch, a compound of fresh coconut milk*, lime juice, rum and a dash of apricot brandy. At Moncrief’s signal, Schwatzendale crossed the saloon and joined him. “You look morose. What has happened now?” * The coconut palm, native to Old Earth, had been transferred across the Gaean Reach wherever climate and salt water permitted, and now seemed native to the entire universe.
The two connoisseurs congratulated each other, then Wingo returned to the Glicca. Professor Gill closed and locked the door. He placed the helmet on a counter. To right and left he arranged a golden candelabrum and reverently put flame to the orange candles. From the depths of a cabinet he brought a squat bottle and a goblet. He unsealed the bottle and poured a thick amber liquid into the goblet; then he pulled up a chair, settled himself to the joy of his acquisition. The universe had been opened to him; he was free to leave this frowsty little town of mad sprang-hoppers and, in dignity and
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