John Drinkard, who had climbed scores of peaks up and down the Rockies, followed and felt like a tenderfoot. The man's odd voice and stilted phrases tantalized him, yet he knew they were not entirely strange. And the matter of the hot hand....
Drinkard dropped back a couple of paces. The man was setting his booted feet into a line of holes that had not been on the glacier earlier; Drinkard would have sworn to that. They made the traverse of the ice field a simple matter.
As they approached the glacier's edge, Drinkard realized that he could see his companion with an amazing clarity. He seemed limned with a dim red glow, which grew brighter with each step. In a few moments, he became as a man outlined in flame, and Drinkard could feel a warmth radiating from him. Yet the snow did not melt under his tread.
"It is the boots," said his guide, just as though Drinkard had spoken his thoughts aloud. "They insulate."
John Drinkard held onto his poise with something of an effort.
"Thank you," he managed drily. "Not only do you light up, but you pick brains. They're both good tricks."
The man ahead chuckled tentatively. "A joke," he said, but it was almost a question.
"He really doesn't know," thought John Drinkard in astonishment.
"That is true," admitted his guide. "Everything else I understand with ease. Even the many kinds of speech are not difficult. But only on Earth are there jokes. We can never be sure about them."
"We, huh? I thought a gag like this would take cooperation. How many of you boys are in on it?"