"Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins." Chip puffed the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and brandy.
"Them Sweaties is what I don't like," he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
"You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like a lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin' head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled."
"I've never had the pleasure," Retief said.
"You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'."
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
"I ain't superstitious ner nothin'," Chip said. "But I'll be triple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now."
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door, accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy knock shook the door.
"They got to look you over," Chip whispered. "Nosy damn Sweaties."