“You have never heard of the Mahovisal? Never?”
“Not until this minute,” answered Watson.
“You have no knowledge of anything before? Do you know WHO YOU ARE?”
“I”—Watson hesitated, wondering whether he had best withhold this information. He decided to chance the truth. “My name is Chick Watson. I am—an American.”
“An American?”
The Rhamda pronounced the word with a roll of the “r” that sounded more like the Chinese “Mellican” than anything else. It was evident that the sounds were totally unfamiliar to him. And his manner was a bit indefinite, doubtful, yet weighted with care, as he slowly repeated the question:
“An American? Once more I don't understand. I have never heard the word, my dear sir. You are neither D'Hartian nor Kospian; although there are some—materialists for the most part—who contend that you are just as any one else. That is—a man.”
“Perhaps I am,” returned Watson, utterly confounded. He did not know what to say. He had never heard of a Kospian or a D'Hartian, nor of the Mahovisal. It made things difficult; he couldn't get started. Most of all, he wanted information; and, instead, he was being questioned. The best he could do was to equivocate.
As for the Rhamda, he frowned. Apparently his eager interest had been dashed with disappointment. But only slightly, as Watson could see; the man was of such culture and intellect as to have perfect control over his emotions. In his balance and poise he was very like Avec, and he had the same pleasing manner.
“My dear sir,” he began, “if you are really a man, then you can tell me something of great importance.”