Noting his bearings carefully, he hobbled painfully westward, with thirty pounds of money on his back. He would intersect the major North-South Intercontinental highway by at least noon.
Two hours later, he came to a small plastic cabin in a clearing at the edge of a forest.
Wincing now with each step, he made his way to the door. He knocked.
There was a long wait.
The door opened. A girl stood before him in a dressing gown. She frowned and asked, "Itsil obwatly jer gekompilp?"
Hearing Itraian spoken by a native in the flesh had a powerful emotional impact on Shamar the Worker.
Stumblingly, he introduced himself and explained that he was camping out. During the previous night he had become lost and injured his ankle. If she could spare him food and directions, he would gladly pay.
With a smile of superiority, she stepped aside and said in Itraian, "Come in, Chom the Worker."
He felt panic, but he choked it back and followed her. Apparently he had horribly mispronounced his own name. It was as though, in English he had said Barchestershire for Barset. He cursed whatever Professor had picked that name for whatever obscure reason.
"Sit down," she invited. "I'm about to have breakfast. Eggs and bacon—" the Itraian equivalent—"if that's all right with you. I'm Garfling Germadpoldlt by the way, although you can call me Ge-Ge."