Dane Thorson, Cargo-master-apprentice of the Solar Queen, Galactic FreeTrader spacer, Terra registry, stood in the middle of the ship's crampedbather while Rip Shannon, assistant Astrogator and his senior in theService of Trade by some four years, applied gobs of highly scented pasteto the skin between Dane's rather prominent shoulder blades. The smallcabin was thickly redolent with spicy odors and Rip sniffedappreciatively.
"You're sure going to be about the best smelling Terran who ever set booton Sargol's soil," his soft slur of speech ended in a rich chuckle.
Dane snorted and tried to estimate progress over one shoulder.
"The things we have to do for Trade!" his comment carried a hint ofpresent embarrassment. "Get it well in—this stuff's supposed to hold forhours. It'd better. According to Van those Salariki can talk your earsright off your head and say nothing worth hearing. And we have to sit andlisten until we get a straight answer out of them. Phew!" He shook hishead. In such close quarters the scent, pleasing as it was, was alsooverpowering. "We would have to pick a world such as this—"
Rip's dark fingers halted their circular motion. "Dane," he warned,"don't you go talking against this venture. We got it soft and we'regoing to be credit-happy—if it works out—"
But, perversely, Dane held to a gloomier view of the immediate future."If," he repeated. "There's a galaxy of 'ifs' in this Sargolproposition. All very well for you to rest easy on your fins—you don'thave to run about smelling like a spice works before you can get the timeof day from one of the natives!"
Rip put down the jar of cream. "Different worlds, different customs," heiterated the old tag of the Service. "Be glad this one is so easy toconform to. There are some I can think of—There," he ended his massagewith a stinging slap. "You're all evenly greased. Good thing you don'thave Van's bulk to cover. It takes him a good hour to get his creamon—even with Frank helping to spread. Your clothes ought to be steamedup and ready, too, by now—"
He opened a tight wall cabinet, originally intended to sterilize clothingwhich might be contaminated by contact with organisms inimical toTerrans. A cloud of steam fragrant with the same spicy scent poured out.
Dane gingerly tugged loose his Trade uniform, its brown silky fabric dampon his skin as he dressed. Luckily Sargol was warm. When he stepped outon its ruby tinted soil this morning no lingering taint of his off-worldorigin must remain to disgust the sensitive nostrils of the Salariki. Hesupposed he would get used to this process. After all this was the firsttime he had undergone the ritual. But he couldn't lose the secretconviction that it was all very silly. Only what Rip had pointed out wasthe truth—one adjusted to the customs of aliens or one didn't trade andthere were other things he might have had to do on other worlds whichwould have been far more upsetting to that core of private fastidiousnesswhich few would have suspected existed in his tall, lanky frame.
"Whew—out in the open with you—!" Ali Kamil apprentice Engineer,screwed his too regular features into an expression of extreme distasteand waved Dane by him in the corridor.
For the sake of his shipmates' olfactory nerves, Dane hurried on to theport which gave on the ramp now tying the Queen to Sargol's crust. Butthere he lingered, waiting for Van Rycke, the Cargo-master of the