But enough of Tabby’s methods of perception; Doggo informed me to my joy that the Cupian lady had been moved to quarters adjoining my own; and had expressed herself as no longer unfriendly toward me.
The next morning I called upon her.
I had now made sufficient progress with the spoken language, so that we were able to chat quite pleasantly together. She had me tell my entire adventures since my arrival on the planet, and punctuated my narrative with many pretty “ohs” and “ahs” at the various points at which my life was endangered and then spared. We parted very good friends, it seemed to me. At least she no longer regarded me as a repulsive wild beast, which was some consolation and encouragement.
In the succeeding days we became better and better acquainted, she telling me a great deal about her planet, and I in turn telling her about my life on earth. But I—warned by Doggo—never once suggested that she tell me who she was; and she on her part showed no inclination to do so.
Doggo, at my insistence, made no report to headquarters that her hostility to me had ceased.
Frequently she and I dined together. Our favorite dish was a stew of alta, the mushroomlike plant which the ant-men cultivate underground on beds of chopped tartan leaves. The secret of growing this plant had been carefully guarded by the Formians and has never been learned by the Cupians. It tastes much like chestnuts, only not so rich, and forms the chief part of ant diet, much like rice among the Japanese.
All this time I had seen nothing of my old enemy Satan; in fact, I had seen nothing of him since he had tried to kill me many months ago. I had dismissed him from my mind, and so was much surprised when one day he swaggered into my quarters in a particularly truculent mood. Doggo was with me at the time, and bristled up at the other’s approach. It was plain that the two did not care for each other.
“How is your pet mathlab from the planet Minos?” sneered Satan.
Now, to call a person a “mathlab” is one of the worst insults that can be offered on the planet Poros. It is as bad as to call a man a skunk, a sandless puppy, and a cur all at once in the United States, or a chameau in France. And although the insult was directed at me, yet it was spoken to my friend Doggo and it was he who had been really insulted.
Doggo kept his temper admirably, but answered the sneer with another sneer: “You forget yourself to speak so to a superior officer. My only explanation is that you have been chewing some saffra root.”