"I'll pay you fifty credits," said Creen...Silence. He added, with a touch of resentment, "That's a good price."
"A very good price," said Arvardan, "but, as I told you, I have no shirts to sell."
"Well..." Creen shrugged. "Expect to stay on Earth quite a while, I suppose?"
"Maybe."
"What's your line of business?"
The archaeologist allowed irritation to rise to the surface. "Look, Mr. Creen, if you don't mind, I'm a little tired and would like to take a nap. Is that all right with you?"
Creen frowned. "What's the matter with you? Don't your kind believe in being civil to people? I'm just asking you a polite question; no need to bite my ear off."
The conversation, hitherto conducted in a low voice, had suddenly amplified itself into a near shout. Hostile expressions turned Arvardan's way, and the archaeologist's lips compressed themselves into a thin line.
He had asked for it, he decided bitterly. He would not have gotten into this mess if he had held aloof from the beginning, if he hadn't felt the necessity of vaunting his damned tolerance and forcing it on people who didn't want it.
He said levelly, "Mr. Creen, I didn't ask you to join me, and I haven't been uncivil. I repeat, I am tired and would like to rest. I think there's nothing unusual in that."
"Listen"-the young man rose from his seat, threw his cigarette away with a violent gesture, and pointed a finger-"you don't have to treat me like I'm a dog or something. You stinking Outsiders come here with your fine talk and standoffishness and think it gives you the right to stamp all over us. We don't have to stand for it, see. If you don't like it here, you can go back where you came from, and it won't take much more of your lip to make me light into you, either. You think I'm afraid of you?"
Arvardan turned his head away and stared stonily out the window.
Creen said no more, but took his original seat once again. There was an excited buzz of conversation round and about the plane which Arvardan ignored. He felt, rather than saw, the sharpened and envenomed glances being cast at him. Until, gradually, it passed, as all things did.
He completed the journey, silent and alone.
The landing at the Chica airport was welcome. Arvardan smiled to himself at the first sight from the air of the "best damned city on Earth," but found it, nevertheless, an immense improvement over the thick, unfriendly atmosphere of the plane.
He supervised the unloading of his luggage and had it transferred into a biwheel cab. At least he would be the only passenger here, so that if he took care not to speak unnecessarily to the driver, he could scarcely get into trouble.
"State House," he told the cabby, and they were off.
Arvardan thus entered Chica for the first time, and he did so on the day that Joseph Schwartz escaped from his room at the Institute for Nuclear Research.
Creen watched Arvardan leave with a bitter half-smile. He took out his little book and studied it closely between puffs at his cigarette. He hadn't gotten much out of the passengers, despite his story about his uncle (which he had used often before to good effect). To be sure, the old guy had complained about a man living past his time and had blamed it on "pull" with the Ancients. That would come under the heading of slander against the Brotherhood. But then the geezer was heading for the Sixty in a month, anyway. No use putting his name down.
But this Outsider, that was different. He surveyed the item with a feeling of pleasure: "Bel Arvardan, Baronn, Sirius Sector-curious about the Sixty-secretive about own affairs-entered Chica by commercial plane 11 A.M. Chica time, 12 October-anti-Terrestrian attitude very marked."
This time maybe he had a real haul. Picking up these little squealers who made incautious remarks was dull work, but things like this made it payoff.
The Brotherhood would have his report before half an hour was up. He made his way leisurely off the field.
8. Convergence At Chica
For the twentieth time Dr. Shekt leafed through his latest volume of research notes, then looked up as Pola entered his office. She frowned as she slipped on her lab coat.
"Now, Father, haven't you eaten yet?"
"Eh? Certainly I have...Oh, what's this?"
"This is lunch. Or it was, once. What you ate must have been breakfast. Now there's no sense in my buying meals and bringing them here if you're not going to eat them. I'm just going to make you go home for them."
"Don't get excited. I'll eat it. I can't interrupt a vital experiment every time you think I ought to eat, you know."
He grew cheerful again over the dessert. "You have no idea," he said, "the kind of man this Schwartz is. Did I ever tell you about his skull sutures?"
"They're primitive. You told me."
"But that's not all. He's got thirty-two teeth: three molars up and down, left and right, counting one false one that must be homemade. At least I've never seen a bridge that has metal prongs hooking it onto adjacent teeth instead of being grafted to the jawbone...But have you ever seen anyone with thirty-two teeth?"
"I don't go about counting people's teeth, Father. What's the right number-twenty-eight?"
"It sure as Space is...I'm still not finished, though. We took an internal analysis yesterday. What do you suppose we found?...Guess!"
"Intestines?"
"Pola, you're being deliberately annoying, but I don't care. You needn't guess; 111 tell you. Schwartz has a vermiform appendix, three and a half inches long, and it's open. Great Galaxy, it's completely unprecedented! I have checked with the Medical School-cautiously, of course-and appendixes are practically never longer than half an inch, and they're never open."