"Greetings, Oh child of the Blue World!" he intoned. "As Thagwar of Themis I bid you welcome to our peace-loving little planet—"
"Th-thanks!" said the Old Man, and looked bewildered. "Lanse, son, suppose you—?"
But Lanse was staring curiously at the speaker. He nudged me and whispered, "Sparks, study the Thagwar! Do you notice anything ... well ... strange about him?"
"Sure!" I assented. "He looks like a veterinarian's mistake; is that what you mean? If it's the color of his eyes you're worrying about, you'd better ask somebody else. These Themisites all look the same to me. Like peas from the same pot."
"That's not what I meant," whispered Biggs. "What strikes me as being odd is that ... remember how proud he was of those ornaments we gave him before the 'night' period set in? He had himself all decked out like a Christmas tree. But now look at him! Not a single decoration!"
"Maybe," I suggested, "he's allergic to tin?"
"And on the other hand," mused Biggs, "that Themisite over there is wearing a bracelet and a brass curtain rod in his nose—"
He was perfectly right. The big boss of Themis was as barren of trinkets as a Pilgrim father. But standing in the background was one of his henchmen glittering like gilt on a joy-joint bar! It was whacky. The Thagwar didn't look to me like the kind of guy—or hoss—who would donate his "tribute" to a subject.
"There's something fishy about this," I said. "Ask him how come, Lanse ... just for the halibut."
"I will," said Biggs, and stepped forward to do so. But before he could pop the question, the Thagwar spoke up.