A plump Solarian in shrieking sports clothes was yelling at an impassive native storekeeper who stood outside his shop. “Hey, you boy, gimme him fella souvenir chop-chop…”
“Pidgin Solarian,” grimaced Skorrogan. “It’s on its way out, too, what with all young Cundaloans being taught the proper speech from the ground up. But tourists never learn.” He scowled, and for a moment his hand shifted to his blaster.
But no — times changed. You did not wipe out someone who simply happened to be personally objectionable, not even on Skontar. Not any more.
The tourist turned and bumped him. “Oh, so sorry,” he exclaimed, urbanely enough. “I should have looked where I was going.”
“Is no matter,” shrugged Skorrogan.
The Solarian dropped into a struggling and heavily accented High Naarhaym: “I really must apologize, though. May I buy you a drink?”
“No matter,” said Skorrogan, with a touch of grimness.
“What a Planet! Backward as… as Pluto! I’m going on to Skontar from here. I hope to get a business contract — you know how to do business, you Skontarans!”
Skorrogan snarled and swung away, fairly dragging Thordin with him. They had gone half a block dSwn the motilator before the Valtam asked, “What happened to your manners? He was trying hard to be civil to us. Or do you just naturally hate humans?”
“I like most of them,” said Skorrogan. “But not their tourists. Praise the Fate, we don’t get many of that breed on Skontar. Their engineers and businessmen and students are all right. I’m glad that relations between Sol and Skang are close, so we can get many of that sort. But keep out the tourists!”