"Don't get me wrong," said Morley. "It's nothing sinister. You're not to look for that. It may be just a simple thing. The way we comb our hair. There's some reason - perhaps many little ones. And we must know those reasons."
Morley had switched it off as quickly as he had begun it, had poured another round of drinks, had sat down again and talked of their school days and of the girls they'd known and of weekends in the country.
It had been, all in all, a very pleasant evening.
But that had been weeks ago, and since then he'd scarcely remembered it and now here he was on Kimon, sitting on one of his bags in the middle of a park, waiting for a welcoming Kimonian to show up.
All the time that he'd been waiting, he had been prepared for the Kimonian's arrival. He knew what a Kimonian looked like and he should not have been surprised.
But when the native came, he was.
For the native was six-foot ten, and almost a godlike being, a sculptured humanoid who was, astonishingly, much more human than he had thought to find.
One moment he had sat alone in the little parklike glade and the next the native was standing at his side.
Bishop came to his feet and the Kimonian said, "We are glad you are here. Welcome to Kimon, sir."
The native's inflection was as precise and beautiful as his sculptured body.