Cortland smiled at his bewilderment. "It's the exercise. It burns up the alcohol as fast as they drink it. When they're having a real feast, they dance and drink all night, till they collapse from pure exhaustion. They wake up feeling fine—not a sign of a hangover. Of course, tonight they'll only dance for a little while, so they'll only drink a little...."
"Sensible, aren't they?" The voice came out of the air behind them, sardonic, feminine. The language was Terran.
Kirk whirled and peered through the dusk, which was gathering rapidly. He saw a slightly amused pair of brown eyes, brunette hair, and a trim body dressed in chic good taste in expensive Terran clothes.
Cortland stood up. "Mrs. Sherrin ... our new Planetary Administrator, Cyril Kirk."
She lowered herself to the ground, spreading out a small mat under her as she did so. "Jeannette, if you don't mind." She folded her legs under her carefully. "I don't mean to be disrespectful. But there's such a small number of us here, we need to be friends and stick together."
Cortland, who had been looking away for a moment turned to them. "If you'll excuse me, someone wants to talk to me." Kirk nodded.
"Did I meet your husband this afternoon?" he inquired politely, as Cortland strode off.
"No; I'm a widow."
"Oh, I'm sorry," he murmured.