"Don't go taking me for an authority on Venerians," warned Oscar. "I was born here, but I wasn't born here." He patted the floor. "I know the polar region natives, the sort around my own home town-and that's just about the only sort anybody knows."
"You think that makes such a difference?" Matt wanted to know.
"I think we're lucky to be able to talk with them at all-even if the accent does drive me wild. As for other differences-look, if the only humans you had ever met were Eskimos, how far would that get you in dealing with the mayor of a Mexican town? The local customs would all be different."
"Then maybe they won't feed us, after all," Tex said mournfully. t,
But they were fed, and shortly. The curtain was thrust back, something was deposited on the floor, and the door was closed again.
There was a platter of some lumpish substance, color and texture indeterminate in the dim light, and an object about the size and shape of an ostrich egg. Oscar took the platter and sniffed at it, then took a small piece and tasted it. "It's all right," he announced. "Go ahead and eat."
"What is it?" inquired Tex.
"It's . . . well, never mind. Eat it. It won't hurt you and it will keep you alive."
"But what is it? I want to know what I'm eating."
"Permit me to point out that you eat this or go hungry. I don't care which. If I told you, your local prejudices would get in your way. Just pretend it's garbage and learn to love it."