"Shhh," Raoul said indignantly. "You must not interrupt. He is having personal contact with the supernatural, a very important element of the primitive ethos."
"Thank you," Cyril said. "I'll try to remember that."
So will I, thought Skkiru. "They carry learned men and food for the spiritually and physically hungry people of Snaddra," he interrupted impatiently. "They carry warm clothing for the poor and miserable people of Snaddra. They carry yams for the larcenous and frustrated people of Snaddra."
"Yams!" Raoul echoed. "Yams!"
"Shhh, this is fascinating. Go on, beggar."
But the mud sogging over Skkiru's body was too much. The fit could be continued at a later date—and in a drier location.
"Where am I?" he asked, struggling to a sitting position.
"You are on Snaddra, fifth planet of the sun Weebl," Raoul began, "in—"
"Weeeeebl," Skkiru corrected, getting to his feet with the older ethnologist's assistance. "What happened?" He beat futilely at the mud caught in the meshes of his metal rags. "I feel faint."
"Come in and have some coffee with us," Cyril invited. This also was part of Skkiru's plan, for he had no intention of going back across that mud, if he could possibly help it. He had nothing further to say that the recorders should not hear. Bbulas might object to his associating with the Earthmen, but he couldn't do much if the association seemed entirely innocent. At the moment, Snaddra might be a theocracy, but the democratic hangover was still strong.