As instantaneously as it had come, the pain left him. It left him weak and quivering, and John Andrew Farmer lay on his back waiting for his strength to seep back. As the red haze drifted from before his eyes, he realized that the launch had acquired another occupant.
In appearance, she could easily have been Garf’s sister—or his wife. Her figure was lithe and nicely curved. Her scales stopped in eye-catching points just above her distinctly mammalian bosom; from there on up she looked almost completely human. She wasn’t wearing anything either. The over-all effect was oddly beautiful. Farmer blushed hotly, and tried to keep his eyes on her face.
Not that it made any difference to her. She ignored everyone and everything but the fishman. Glaring at him angrily, she snapped out his name in an icy voice. “Garf!”
“Dor!”
Garf was a changed fishman; he looked faintly frightened, moderately worried, and definitely embarrassed. This passed, and he started to smile in a placating manner.
“Garf!” Dor snapped again. She followed it up, this time, with a string of intricate, foreign-sounding words that even Farmer could tell were hot and stinging.
The fishman backed away. He seemed to be growing angry himself now under the whiplashing woman’s tongue. Finally he spoke, in English. He called Dor a puddle-snake. That wasn’t all of what he said, by any means; the name was preceded by several adjectives and followed by an obscene command. Dor blanched slightly.
“Oh, yes?” she said, her voice dripping danger. “I can speak this language too, you know—I learned it years ago, before the gate to this world was closed! And let me tell you something else....”
She told him something else. John Andrew blushed furiously again, and covered his ears with his hands.