"I will get it," Gregrill said.
"Oh, no, please."
But he was already striding away, big and powerful, towering over most of the Earthlings who were scurrying past. She saw him give something to the Martian porter, watched him swing the trunk up on his shoulder. It writhed in her, it devastated her, her father's contemptuous dismissal—"porters and janitors, that's all they're fit for."
"Greg, put it down," she said frantically. "I won't have you carrying it!"
He smiled at her indulgently. "It is not heavy."
"I don't want you to," she pleaded.
"Why do you not want me to?" he asked puzzledly. "Somebody must."
But how could she say it? How could she discuss it at all? She walked beside him, dumbly. They went down the ramp to where the aircabs were loading. An Earthling company had put in all the air transport here; the Martians themselves had never bothered to develop anything more advanced than the eshbrug, a lumbering, three-wheeled, sun-powered vehicle.
"We shall take the airbus," Gregrill said.
"Oh, do we have to?" she asked.