"Yes, Effendi," said Mimp. (He always called me Effendi.) Rapidly, he moved the table over to the Steinway, set out the finished souffle and salad and then hurried to the piano and began laboriously plunking out glorious melody. I took a sip of my julep, then spat it out on the carpet.
"Mimp!" I roared, incensed. "Did you make this drink with Polaris III water?"
Craven and cowering, he fell at my feet, whining for mercy. But I was adamant. You let an alien take an inch, and the next thing, he's swiped a parsec. "The knout," I said, keeping my voice emotionless and holding out my hand.
"Please, Kimosabe," whimpered Mimp, "I dared not use the water in the canteens. You know that Polaris III water is poisonous to us Andromedans, while you Earthmen can tolerate it."
"I can not!" I raged.
"I was speaking medically," he mewed piteously.
"And I, esthetically," I snarled. "The knout, now, and be quick about it."
He scurried on all fours to the bureau where I kept my odds and ends, and came crawling back with the brutal leather whip. I weighed the infraction, decided that three stripes should be lesson enough and I laid them onto his bare back with a steady hand. "Now," I said, wearied by the effort, "play something gay and lilting."
Hastily, he dragged himself to the Steinway and complied. Dinner was really delicious.