"I thought he had to breathe special atmosphere," Walton said. "How can he come out?"
"They've got breathing masks. Usually they don't like to use them." McLeod listened at the earpiece for a moment, then nodded. To Walton he said, "The alien will see you in the lounge."
Walton had barely time to fortify himself with a slug of filtered rum when a crewman appeared at the entrance to the lounge and declared ostentatiously, "His Excellency, Thogran Klayrn of Dirna."
The alien entered.
Walton had seen the photographs, and so he was partially prepared. But only partially.
The photos had not given him any idea of size. The alien stood eight feet high, and gave an appearance of astonishing mass. It must have weighed four or five hundred pounds, but it stood on two thick legs barely three feet long. Somewhere near the middle of the columnar body, four sturdy arms jutted forth strangely. A neckless head topped the ponderous creature—a head covered entirely with the transparent breathing mask. One of the hands held a mechanical device of some sort; the translating machine, Walton surmised.
The alien's hide was bright-green, and leathery in texture. A faint pungent odor drifted through the room, as of an object long immersed in ammonia.
"I am Thogran Klayrn," a booming voice said. "Diplomasiarch of Dirna. I have been sent to talk with Roy Walton. Are you Roy Walton?"
"I am." Walton's voice sounded cold and dry to his own ears. He knew he was too tense, pressing too hard. "I'm very glad to meet you, Thogran Klayrn."