The native stared at him with small pale eyes and bit his middle finger. "Stranger, eh?" he asked in a small pale voice.
"Yes." The native waited. "I come from Ventimor," Clarey told him. Nosy native, he thought furiously; prying primitive.
"You don't hafta shout," the native said. "I'm not deef."
Clarey realized what he hadn't noted consciously before—the natives spoke much more softly than Earthmen. Local custom two.
"You'll be finding things a lot different here in Vangtor," the native told him. "Livelier, more up to date. F'rinstance, do the cars always run on time in Ventimor?"
"Yes," Clarey said firmly.
"Well, they don't here. Know why? That's because we've got more'n one chain of 'em." He made a noise like a wounded turshi. He was laughing.
Clarey smiled until his gums ached. "About the 39:12? It is rather important to me, as I understand the next chain does not leave for several days."
The native lifted a chronometer hanging around his neck. "Ought to get in around 40 or so," he said. "Whyn't you get yourself a female or a bite to eat?" He waved his hand toward the two trade booths that were still open for business.