"Would you like to be called guilty of—" Carpenter paused before the dreaded word—"intolerance?"
"No, no, no!" Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for him to be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. "I have lots of gloves in my pack," he babbled. "Lots and lots. I'll put some on right away."
With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack down from the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device had been invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows, hoop-shaped.
Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A, and a pair of yellow gauntlets slid out.
Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. "Yellow is the color of death on Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passing away! No one ever wears yellow!"
"Sorry," Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded a pair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunic and turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.
"The quality's high," sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids, "but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake from Vega."
The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. "You staying a while in Portyork?" Michael nodded. "Then you'd better stick close to me for a while until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourself until you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get into trouble."
"Thank you, sir," Michael said gratefully. "It's very kind of you."