It was not too difficult to be courteous to V'gu. He looked reasonably pleasant: the standard number of arms and legs, one head, and only a slight tint of green to the skin. The green tint had caused one restaurant in the southern United States some debate before they would permit him a table, but V'gu had not been angered; he had merely smiled and noted it down in his notes about taboos.
In fact, the only thing that made it slightly difficult to be courteous to V'gu was his air of superiority. He paid for services and sample objects and information by trading strange gadgets which could do fabulous things, and which were immediately patentable by the lucky owners, but he passed out the priceless gadgets with the air of a civilized man handing out glass beads and useless gimcracks to savages.
It was a question how long before someone felt enough insulted by this air of superiority to lose his temper and kill the alien being. The governments of the world were nervously protective of V'gu, trying to postpone and prevent any such murder. They were afraid of a space fleet or police force that might come to inquire what had happened to him, if he came to harm.
At last, to the relief of governments, and to the joy of the traffic control department of the airport where his ship still obstructed traffic, V'gu was about to go home. His ship was filled with photographs, notes and souvenirs. He announced that he had spent enough years in a tour of strange planets to complete his course of study. He announced a farewell speech.
Photographers brought cameras to focus on him standing on the lowered gangplank of his ship, and color TV projected his image to the screens of the world—a tallish person, only a little strange and ugly, with a smooth greenish tint to his skin. The photographers finished flashing stills, and the TV sound booms moved in to pick up his voice.
The oldest reporter there was named McCann, and experience had made him leathery and cynical. He already knew what V'gu would say—the alien's superior attitude had made it only too clear.
Someone reminded V'gu respectfully that he had promised a speech.
"Yes indeed," he replied sonorously. His English was perfect. He had spent all of three hours in learning to speak it.
"You may write in your history books that I think Earth is a pleasant little planet," he went on, "but sadly backward and primitive in many respects. I believe that this is caused by the numerous wars, and the generally quarrelsome behavior of your species." He said this without anger, and looked at the crowd and the cameras with a kind of superior pity and compassion in his gaze. "If you could only stop this bickering among yourselves, with a planet as green and pleasant as this you could attain a harmony and pleasure of life equal to any of the truly civilized worlds of the galaxy. My home world, for example, abolished wars generations ago. We learned a philosophy of cooperation."