"They have a strong taboo against eating," Andy explained. "They swallow concentrates to keep alive, but it's still not quite decent. On Mahridge, it's the dining room, not the bathroom, that has a door with a lock on it for privacy.
"Is he married?" asked Miss Featherpenny, who didn't intend to be a steno all her life. "I mean," she added quickly, "his wife would get anxious about his selling something like that, that could get him put in prison, or killed. How did he do it?"
There was a certain coolness in Andy's voice. "He took a lead from the dope peddlers. He converted the adolescent Mahridgians first. It's all right to eat on Mahridge now."
Miss Featherpenny diplomatized. "I don't think that's ethical. Convincing people to do what they think is wrong."
Andy was still suspicious. He said, "Ethical or not, he got the promotion."
They stood at the edge of the only launching pad on Felix II, and surveyed the landscape. Thirty feet away, there was a barnsized stone building with a weedy roof. Aside from some rounded blue hills in the distance, and a Felician leaning against the building, there was not much to detain the eye.
Miss Featherpenny giggled softly in surprise. "He looks like a leprechaun," she said. "The sheet didn't say that."
"Tourist trade," Andy breathed, his eyes gleaming with the solution of his problem.
Since the two-foot-tall welcoming committee showed no signs of moving, they started toward him.