"We are pleased to have this opportunity to show you our hospitality," the man said. "My name is Garanjor, humble Raciv of my people."
Drawers gulped impulsively. The highest official of the land was out to greet him. Him, a nobody from Earth who had landed here by accident, in search of Roxite. Perhaps this was some form of a joke? He scrutinized the faces about him. All were serious to the extreme. An air of serenity seemed to pervade. Drawers drew from his brain all he remembered of the proper etiquette for such occasions. Six years in a space-ship—it was easy to forget.
"I am honored," was all he could think of.
Nervously he juggled a small meter, for the determining of the purity of Roxite, in his hands.
One of the golden people took note of the instrument, and turned to the others with an unmistakable air of excitement. In an instant the entire assembly was crowded about him examining the meter with feverish interest.
One asked: "This metal—have you any more of it?"
"Why that's nothing very much," Drawers replied. "That's only common iron. The ground is filthy with this back on Earth. Why do you ask?"
Persum mentally replied to the question.
"Here, in this city, Ronir, which is what you call Iron is the rarest of all metals. We use it only in the construction of vital instruments and tools. All other uses, because of its extreme scarcity, are forbidden."
"Well, you can have all I have on the ship, if you want it," Drawers offered generously. "It's nothing more than trimmings on the inside of the ship. Iron and steel haven't been of much value since the invention of much superior alloys which have an infinitely greater resistance to heat and cold."