Tea Tray in the Sky, Evelyn E. Smith [best way to read e books .TXT] 📗

"I shall scream," stated Carpenter, "if they play Beautiful Blue Deneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heard this before."

"Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking," sang a buxom Betelgeusian, "what a Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace the wasteful sea."

"I guess the first thing for me to do," Michael began in a businesslike manner, "is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?"

"The word hotel," Carpenter explained through pursed lips, "is not used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasant connotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think...."

"Certainly not," Michael agreed austerely. "I merely want a lodging."

"That word is also—well, you see," Carpenter told him, "on Zaniah it is unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family."

"They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean."

"More like bees. So those creatures who travel—" Carpenter lowered his voice modestly "—alone hire a family for the duration of their stay. There are a number of families available, but the better types come rather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned price controls, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise as much as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would."

The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled with transparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most of the antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of the standard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks because most non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanical devices.

"This," said Carpenter, "is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square, but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permit the existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered the Union, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install the clocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand."

"The pictures in my history books—" Michael began.

"Did I hear you correctly, sir?" The capes of a bright blue cloak trembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. "Did you use the word history?" He pronounced it in terms of loathing. "I have been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to the police, sir."

"Please don't!" Carpenter begged. "This youth has just come from one of the Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe. I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race is noted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part."

"Well," the red one conceded, "let it not be said that Meropians are not tolerant. But, be careful, young man," he warned Michael. "There are other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or you might find yourself in trouble."

He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet and gold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from his floating platform in the air.

"I should have told you," Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropian swirled off. "Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian. They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't any history at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it."

"Naturally," Michael said. "Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there some special reason for everything being decorated in red and green? I noticed it along the way and it's all over here, too."

"Why, Christmas is coming, my boy," Carpenter answered, surprised. "It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Some places are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrines cleared away."

A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly over Times Square.

"Izarians," Carpenter explained "They're much in demand for Christmas displays."

The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: "It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth, good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universe as well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash the cymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's."

"This beautiful walk you see before you," Carpenter said, waving an expository arm, "shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is called Broadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—"

"Listen, could we—" Michael began.

"—Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—"

"By the way—"

"It is extremely rude and hence illegal," Carpenter glared, "to interrupt anyone who is speaking."

"But I would like," Michael whispered very earnestly, "to get washed. If I might."

The other man frowned. "Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarks was converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions. Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have to take a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know."

"A taxi? Isn't there one closer?"

"Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. The installations are extremely expensive."

They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the variety equipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.

Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in a remarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures in his history—in his books, except that none of them showed the huge golden sign "Public-Washport" riding on its spire.

Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby. "Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floor right. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floor right. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor. Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left. Uranians, basement...."

Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed, translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanying themselves on wemps, a cross between a harp and a flute. "Foreign planets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheres prove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the sky to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."

The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; one credit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:

"Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive, for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some use oil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rub with grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lick themselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook it away in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there are than I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one that works for all is Omniclene from Kiffa."

"And now," smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, "we must see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious, but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourself beneath your station."

Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhing "Only 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas" across an aquamarine sky.

"They won't be permanent?" he asked. "The family, I mean?"

"Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time you choose. But why are you so anxious?"

The young man blushed. "Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my own some day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact."

Carpenter beamed. "That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it's an Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted by extraterrestrials."

"Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've