"They want to know if you are a professional pugilist?"
Walther felt immeasureably relieved at hearing these naturally spoken words.
"Good Lord, no!" he gasped.
He took out his entry permits, his identification certificate and his letters of credit, impressively drawn up on the stationery of the Inter-Galactic Exchange Union on Deneb II.
When the doubting officer saw the amount of the credits, his hands shook and he handed the papers back to Walther as if they were state documents. The officers helped the two young men to their feet, admonished them sharply, tipped their hats to Walther and hurried back to their posts.
Willy regarded Walther quizzically.
"Well, young man, you seem to have very persuasive ways!"
At home, it had been easy for Walther to slip from English to German. He did it now in the stress of the moment.
"Ich kann Ihnen nicht sagen wie leid es mir tut—"
He was in the middle of his apology before he realized he was talking German. He broke off in confusion. Willy's pink cheeks crinkled with amusement.