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Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The price of
eggs
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The price of eggs

Author: Randall Garrett

Illustrator: Leo Summers

Release date: June 28, 2024 [eBook #73936]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company,

1959

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRICE OF

EGGS ***
 THE PRICE OF EGGS

By RANDALL GARRETT

ILLUSTRATED by SUMMERS

Royal babies were pretty important on Dynak,

even if they did hatch out of eggs. So when
Boccaccio di Vino mated with the Shannil,
everyone held their breath. Especially di
Vino. He might not have much more of it.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Fantastic Science Fiction Stories December 1959.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"You'll find things a lot different out here, Lieutenant," said Colonel
Hastings as he eyed the newly-arrived officer in a manner which was
intended to be detached, and which failed by a narrow margin to do
quite that. He levelled his gaze.
Lieutenant Donald John Newhouse nodded his head just the
slightest and said, "Yes, sir."
"I appreciate the fact that you have been specially trained for this
work," the colonel went on, "and I appreciate that Sector
Headquarters must think very highly of you to send you out on
something like this. But it is my own personal opinion that it takes
more than theoretical work to understand the situation on an alien
planet that one has never visited. You've got to live with it."
"Yes, sir," said Lieutenant Newhouse again. There was little else he
could say; there was no point in arguing with the colonel. He was
well aware that Colonel Hastings was angry because he had been
unable to solve the problem that was facing him here on Dynak, and
because Sector Headquarters had sent in a new man to do it—and a
fresh-faced junior officer, at that. Logically, the colonel should have
been angry with himself, not with Newhouse, but man does not
function by logic alone.
Colonel Hastings toyed with a pink paperweight with one hand and
scratched his button nose with the other, while his eyes remained
steadily on Newhouse. "I also appreciate the fact that you...."
Newhouse listened respectfully to what the colonel had to say,
mentally making a note to the effect that Colonel Hastings, on his
own word, was a very appreciative man. He seemed to appreciate
everything.
"... And I assure you that you will have every bit of data which we
have so far obtained at your disposal."
He paused, and Newhouse, sensing that he should make some reply,
said: "Thank you, sir; that will be very helpful."
The colonel sighed. "Very well. Don't hesitate to call on me for
anything, Lieutenant. And—uh—" He paused suddenly looking
wistful, like a kicked collie.
"Yes, sir?" said Newhouse respectfully.
"—uh—I trust you will keep me informed—ah—for my own
information."
"As much as possible, sir," said Newhouse, trying hard not to feel
sorry for the colonel.
"Very well," Colonel Hastings said morosely. "Unless there are any
questions, you may go."
Newhouse detected the hopeful note in the other man's voice and
responded. "I really don't think I can ask any intelligent questions
until I've studied the problem thoroughly, sir."
The colonel looked gratified. "Very well. I appreciate your concern,
Lieutenant. Thank you."
"Thank you, sir," Lieutenant Newhouse said saluting. Then he turned
on his heel and left the office.

He moseyed over to the broad swath of green park that had been
left as a relaxation spot when the base had been built. It wasn't
crowded; there were only two or three men sitting on the benches,
smoking and talking quietly. Newhouse found a bench to himself and
sat down to mull things over.
There was nothing totally new in the situation here on Dynak.
Newhouse, as a trouble-shooter, knew that, even if Colonel Hastings
didn't. Dynak was one of the many worlds which Man had decided
not to colonize in spite of its inviting appearance. The biochemistry
of the plants and animals was just a little too different to be
compatible with Man, which meant that the planet would have to be
wiped clean and started over in order to provide a suitable
environment for human beings. And, aside from the fact that such a
step would mean destroying millions of species that would better be
preserved for study, it would mean the death of the several million
humanoid natives of the planet—something that Man had no desire
to be responsible for.
Dynak Base was not a military establishment; the Space Force as a
whole used only a minor part of its energies for military purposes.
Most of its activities were scientific in nature. Nonetheless, any base
such as this had to be fortified to a certain extent. There were tribes
of humanoids in the immediate vicinity which were, like all such
cultural units at that stage of development, intensely hostile to
anything strange. Right now, the majority of them were warily
friendly with the Earthmen, but there was no way of knowing how
long that uneasy peace might last. Meanwhile, they were doing
useful work—bringing in samples of various types of fauna and flora
for the labs to work on.
It all sounded fine so far, Newhouse thought grumpily. But the catch
lay in the word "humanoid." Any reasonably intelligent race was
classified as "humanoid" if they were erect, bifurcate animals—a
definition which covered a multitude of variations. Most of them you
wouldn't want to meet alone in a dark alley, and if you did, it would
be a toss-up as to which of you would be the most frightened.
Oddly-colored skins, three-eyed faces, and other outré features were
not at all uncommon among them.
Dynak was different. The humanoids were near human. The brown-
yellow pigment in their skins wasn't melanin, and it was another
pigment that gave them the intensely blue-violet eye coloring; they
had different kinds of glands inside, arranged differently; they were
almost entirely hairless, except for soft patches of down on the top
of the head; and they averaged about four feet seven in height. Not
human, no. Definitely not homo sapiens.
But they certainly looked human. And, to top the whole thing off, the
females were, to an Earthman's eyes, as pretty as little dolls. Except
that dolls are normally not built so enticingly.
They weren't all beautiful, true, but there were enough beauties to
tempt the weary Earthman. And those who weren't weary were even
more tempted.
Their body chemistries were incompatible, of course; off-spring from
such a union were impossible. But the union itself was certainly
possible.
Even so, there hadn't been too much trouble. For one thing, there
were plenty of human women on Dynak Base; for another, the semi-
savage tribes which occupied the territory around Dynak Base had a
rather laissez faire attitude, and a female's over-friendliness, even
with alien giants from the sky, wasn't frowned upon. And, for a third,
the savage women usually didn't come up to the standards of a
fastidious Earthman, as far as general cleanliness was concerned.
But the women of the semi-barbaric city-state of Oassi, a hundred
miles to the north, were a different matter entirely. Newhouse had
never actually seen any of the native females, but the trimensional,
full color, motion recordings had been graphic enough.
Newhouse could understand perfectly well why Boccaccio di Vino
had managed to get himself into the jam he was in.

A man in civilian clothing had been approaching the bench

Newhouse was seated on, but the lieutenant didn't pay much
attention until the man stopped by the bench and said: "Lieutenant
Newhouse?"
Newhouse started to rise. "Yes?"
"Sit down, Lieutenant," the other said, sitting down beside
Newhouse. He was a lean, elderly man, with graying hair and a long-
jawed, bony face that managed to show a strong sense of humor in
spite of its saturnine construction. "I'm Bruce MacAuliffe; Colonel
Hastings said you wanted to talk to me."
Newhouse swallowed. "Well, yes, sir; I did. But you didn't have to—"
MacAuliffe raised a hand. "That's all right. Hastings has his own way
of doing things. There's no point in raising a fuss. And besides, I
imagine you want to get things started. Something has to be done
about di Vino."
MacAuliffe was the head of the Diplomatic Section on Dynak, and an
outstanding expert on anthropology and xenology; Newhouse felt
flattered that the man had taken the trouble to seek him out.
"Something has to be done, all right," Newhouse agreed, "but I'm
not quite sure what at this point. In spite of the reports, I still don't
have the whole picture."
MacAuliffe lifted a thin eye brow. "No? I thought my reports were
comprehensive enough." But there was a definite twinkle in his eyes.
Newhouse grinned. "Hastings thinks the job can't be done till I've
spent six months here because it's impossible to learn from reports;
you think I can hop off immediately and get di Vino out of this jam,
because everything can be learned from reports. It's a rough life we
lead."
The diplomat grinned back. "Just what is it you want to know,
Lieutenant?"
Newhouse then scratched thoughtfully at the area just behind his
right ear. "Details, mostly, I guess. You and di Vino and the others
went to Oassi to square away the details of this contract with the
local government, and di Vino managed to get himself married. All
as plain as my Aunt Millie's face. But I don't quite get a picture of
Boccaccio di Vino the man nor of the personalities of the women
involved."
MacAuliffe said: "I see. Well, di Vino himself is a very personable
young man; good conversationalist and a fine diplomat—for a young
man. He shows promise of getting somewhere in the field."
"Won't this caper sort of put a black mark on his record?"
MacAuliffe rubbed his long, thin nose sadly. "I'm afraid it will, yes.
Shame, too. Mr. di Vino acted with the impetuosity of youth, and it'll
probably follow him well into his old age."
"By then," said Newhouse, "he'll be bragging about it."
"Probably. He's just the type, though, who's a push-over for a set-up
like that; pretty faces and figures go to his head. He and the
Shannil, for instance, were...."
Newhouse listened while MacAuliffe talked.

The cultural level of the city-state of Oassi was similar in many ways
to that of Egypt in the fifteenth century B.C., or that of pre-classical
Athens or Sparta. It differed strongly, however, in that it was
essentially a matriarchy. Since the natives of Dynak were oviparous,
the women were freed from the temporary disability that child-
bearing brought to viviparous species. In the more savage tribes, the
females suckled the young and cared for them from hatching until
they were old enough to fend for themselves; in Oassi, however,
most of the care of the young had been handed over to the males
while the females ran the state. The fighters were of both sexes,
carefully segregated into male and female battalions, but the top
officers were all females.
Dynak Base had been built well away from Oassi; one of the strict
rules of Earth was that no indigenous culture should be subjugated
or influenced any more than necessary. Before any contact was
made, a study of the more savage tribes had to be made.
Nonetheless, rumors had come out of the jungle that a strange
group of aliens had built a fortress near the banks of the Ngong
River, and the people of Oassi were aware of the presence of the
Earthmen long before any contact had been made by the Earthmen
themselves.
Eventually, diplomatic relations between the Earthmen and the Oassi
people had been established simply because the Oassi army had
sent an expeditionary force to find out the intentions of the
strangers. There had been no actual fighting; the female general in
charge of the troops had decided that it would be futile to attack
Dynak Base and had asked, instead, for a parley.
The upshot of the whole incident was a decision to send a diplomatic
party to Oassi itself. And Boccaccio di Vino had been a member of
that party.
The trouble was that, at that time, di Vino and the others didn't
know a great deal about the customs and mores of the Oassi. More
exactly, di Vino didn't know that just holding hands with an Oassi girl
was tantamount to a formal engagement. And di Vino hadn't just
stopped with holding hands. After the party had been in the city
sixty-three days, di Vino found himself legally married to Oanella,
the daughter of the Shann and Shanni of Oassi, and heir to the
throne. When the old Shanni died, Oanella would become Shanni,
and di Vino, as her consort, would become Shann whether he liked it
or not.
It might sound like a good position to be in, and, in a human society,
it could have been just fine. But Oassi was not a human city, and di
Vino wanted desperately to get out and go back to Dynak Base—
even farther away, if possible.
Oassi had a pleasant little law regarding the crown princess and the
Shanni. If no fertile eggs were laid within the first two hundred days
of marriage, it was the duty of the royal personage to get herself
another husband. But since monogamy was strictly enforced, and
since no one, not even the Shanni, could re-marry while the spouse
remained alive, the only way out for her highness was the obvious
one. Consequently, Boccaccio di Vino had found himself facing
death.
"The big trouble," said MacAuliffe, "is that the young Shannil seems
to be actually proud of di Vino; her 'giant' is something for the lesser
nobles to envy." His face darkened. "She'll probably miss him very
much."
"We can't let them kill him," Newhouse said flatly.
"I hope not," MacAuliffe said, "but, outside of storming their city, I
don't see how we can get him out of the citadel."
"I'll think of a way," Newhouse said grimly. "I'm going into the city
with the next food convoy."

"Sometimes," said Master Sergeant Pemberton in a low voice, "I

think this whole thing is a waste of time." He turned the wheel of
the car a trifle to avoid a tree, then twisted it back to avoid another.
Newhouse stuck a cigarette in his mouth, fired it. "What? You mean,
taking di Vino food? He might get pretty hungry."
"I didn't mean that, Lieutenant; I wouldn't want to let him starve.
But driving in all this chow every so often, over a hundred miles of
jungle, isn't my idea of an efficient way to run an outfit."
"What would you do, if it were your job to decide policy?" Newhouse
asked, genuinely curious.
"Just what the colonel's doing now," Pemberton said. "I realize it's
the only sensible way. But there are times when I wish we could just
walk in there, pull out our guns, and tell them to hand him over or
else."
"Sure," said Newhouse, "but who'd raise gakgaks for us then? You
want to raise a whole herd and milk 'em yourself?"
"My mother didn't raise her little Willie to be a herdsman for alien
critters," the sergeant said virtuously. "Besides, I wouldn't know
how, and I'm not anxious to learn. Those things smell worse than a
herd of sick hogs."
"Same thing I'd say," Newhouse agreed. "But Earth would scream so
loud they could be heard in Messier 31 if their only supply of anti-
cancer serum were to be cut off, or even reduced. And if you know
of any way to get it except from gakgak milk, a grateful galaxy will
prostrate itself at your feet."
"I'd feel pretty silly if they did," said Pemberton, wrenching the
wheel around to avoid another tree. "But it's a hell of a note that Dr.
Chung had to find the stuff in gakgak milk at all. Why couldn't he
have been sensible and found it in tree leaves or something? Then
we wouldn't have to stay on good terms with a bunch of high-
handed female dictators."
"No," said Newhouse, "probably not. But we'd probably have to stay
on good terms with the savages around the base so they'd go out
and gather leaves for us. What's the difference?"
"The difference," Pemberton said triumphantly, "is that we wouldn't
have to worry about the care and feeding of our boy, di Vino."
"Um," said Newhouse, realizing when he'd been beaten.

Pemberton glanced in his rear view mirror. "They having trouble

back there? No, I guess not; they just slowed down a little."
Newhouse swiveled his head around and peered at the second car,
which was following them. Like their own, it floated a foot off the
ground on its antigravs as it moved through the jungle. It didn't
seem to be having any trouble.
"There's another thing, Lieutenant," Pemberton said. "I don't like the
idea of carrying a dame along. Not that she's any trouble, but she
might get hurt. This isn't exactly the cornfields of Iowa, you know."
"I think Captain Smith can take care of herself," Newhouse said.
"She's a pretty tough gal."
"I'd rather have her on my side than against me, that's for sure," the
sergeant admitted, "but my protective instincts always rise when I
see a woman out in the wilds like this. Even if she is an officer."
Newhouse started to answer, but there was a pounding on the roof
of the car. Pemberton slowed, rolled down the window, stuck out his
head, and said something in a language Newhouse didn't
understand.
Ksitka, a hunter from one of the tribes near Dynak Base, jabbered
something back in the same tongue. Pemberton pulled his head back
in.
"He says he smells trouble. There's a group of those lizard-like
carnivores up ahead—two or three, he says. We'll have to go around
'em; I don't want to get tangled up with those babies." He turned
the wheel, and the car angled to the right. "Can't go to the left," he
explained. "There's a cliff there that we couldn't make."
For a long minute, he was silent. Then: "And that's another thing,
Lieutenant; we have to keep these cars close to the ground. If we
could fly 'em, we'd have been to Oassi hours ago. But no, just
because we're not to reveal our strength to the natives, we have to
go creeping along like snails. Why, when I...."
Newhouse folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.
Sergeant Pemberton was a compulsive griper, but his droning voice
made a nice lullaby.

When they hove into sight of the city gates of Oassi, Pemberton
shook the lieutenant. "We're here, sir. Their scouts spotted us twenty
miles back, and the guard of honor is lined up, waiting for us."
Newhouse shoved himself into a more upright position and looked
out at the pygmy-sized natives lined up in gorgeous array, in
brightly-colored kilts and feathers. They looked, Newhouse opined,
like a cross between a regiment of Scottish Highlanders and a group
of Zulu warriors in full battle array. Each man had a longbow and a
quiver of arrows slung across the back of his shoulders, and each
was carrying a seven-foot, metal-tipped spear in his right hand.
"Very impressive," said Newhouse. "Okay, Sergeant; let's get our
own show on the road."
Both men got out of the car and marched solemnly back to the
second car. Ksitka slid off the top of the car and marched back with
them, looking very proud and haughty in his resplendent Earth-
designed uniform, which was even gaudier than those of the Oassi
forces.
At the door of the rear car, they paused. Newhouse opened it, and
all three bowed low as Captain Virginia Smith emerged.
She was not in uniform, as the other spacemen were; she wore an
array of robes and jewels that would have looked pretentious at a
British Coronation. She was a tall woman; a full six feet in height;
broad in proportion, she was a thirty-six year old career officer who
could look both commanding and matronly.
Ksitka, who had been carefully coached in his role, ran around
behind her and lifted the train of her robes so that they would not
drag the ground. Then the four of them marched solemnly up to the
honor guard, Newhouse and Pemberton in the lead, with Captain
Smith and Ksitka trailing behind, leaving the cars in charge of the
driver of the second vehicle.
The Oassi guard, trying very hard not to look impressed, closed
ranks and marched to the city gates with them. Newhouse had
already noticed the effect that had been produced, however. The
Oassi could see that Virginia Smith was obviously a woman, and a
very powerful one at that. Thus, she commanded a respect that
mere males could not have hoped for.
At the gate, the procession was met by a trio of Oassi females
whose dress, impressive though it was, couldn't even compare with
that of Captain Smith. Even little Ksitka's uniform was flashier.
Ksitka himself was in absolute ecstasy, in spite of the fact that his
face was as stony and expressionless as an Easter Island idol's. His
tribe had been looked down on and sneered at by the city-dwellers
since time immemorial. And now, he, Ksitka the Hunter, was superior
to the Oassi. It was a good feeling, and Ksitka was revelling in it.
The three Oassi bowed low as the Earthmen approached, and one of
them said: "Her Splendor, the Shanni, awaits you at the citadel. May
I inquire as to the rank of our honored guest?"
Newhouse had studied the Oassi language, and, although his accent
was a bit heavy, he was perfectly lucid. "This is Her Supremacy, the
Captain," he said with dignity.
"Kepteen?" the Oassi woman repeated. "An exalted rank, no doubt."
"No doubt at all," Newhouse agreed rather ambiguously. "She has
come to pay her respects to her sister, the Shanni."

That made Captain Smith's rank perfectly clear; as a "sister", she

was obviously the equal of the Shanni.
"Come this way," the officer said. "Transportation has been provided.
I am afraid, however, that we must apologize to Her Supremacy for
the inadequacy of the sedan chair we provided; we were not
prepared for the visit of so exalted a personage."
"I will speak to Her Supremacy," Newhouse said. He turned to
Captain Smith. "They want to apologize because they haven't got a
sedan chair fancy enough for you," he said in English. "They're really
impressed."
"I thought that's what the gal said," replied the captain, keeping her
face haughty. "I can understand the language better than I can
speak it. What should I say?"
"Anything you like; you're doing fine. Say something to me, and look
as condescending as possible."
"Very well," she said, complying, "convey my compliments and tell
them they can all go stick their noses in their ears and blow their
brains out."
"Thank you," said Newhouse, bowing low. "I'll tell them, but it may
lose something in translation."
He turned to the officer and reverted to Oassi. "Her Supremacy
understands your lack of proper transportation perfectly, and she will
convey her apologies to the Shanni for this unexpected visit. Her
Supremacy realizes that you are not at all to blame for not providing
a sedan chair suitable for her rank, and she has therefore graciously
condescended to wait until a chair of suitable dignity is provided for
the remainder of the way."
"Her Supremacy is most gracious," said the diminutive officer, gazing
up at the towering captain in awe. "There will be as little delay as
possible."

She turned and barked orders at a squad of husky males standing

nearby, and they turned and trotted off at high speed. It was nearly
fifteen minutes before they returned, during which time the
Earthmen and the Oassi tried to outdo each other in displaying
nothing but stolid patience.
The "chair of suitable dignity" was quite something. It was painted a
rust red and decorated with gold leaf and polished but unfaceted
gems. It took a dozen of the little aliens, six on either side, to hoist
the thing off the ground and carry it after Captain Smith had climbed
in. She was obviously a little cramped in a conveyance built for
someone two-thirds her size, but she bore it with dignified hauteur.
Ksitka, looking very superior, trotted along beside the sedan chair;
he was big for a Dynakian, standing a good three inches taller than
the city-dwellers.
Newhouse and Pemberton had climbed into the less brightly
decorated chairs that they'd provided, and were carried along behind
the captain as the procession wound its way through the streets of
the city toward the citadel.
A runner had been sent on ahead to warn the Shanni that an
unexpected guest was coming, and she and her rather diminutive
consort were on the top step of the citadel, flanked by another batch
of guardsmen when the guests arrived. Her daughter, the Shannil,
and her consort, Boccaccio di Vino, were nowhere to be seen.
That's partial confirmation, at least, Newhouse thought wryly. The
jungle tribesmen who had occasion to trade in the city had brought
word back that the Shannil feared that her new husband might take
it in his head to return to his own people—a crime which, like
suicide, might not be punishable when successful, but to try and fail
was a criminal offense in Oassi. Evidently the citadel guards were
making sure that lover-boy didn't go over the hill.

Not that he'd ever been allowed much freedom. The royal family had
kept a wary eye on him ever since the wedding; the old Shanni
seemed to have a hunch that di Vino hadn't realized he was a
bridegroom until it was too late, and she had seemed to sense right
away that he was not too keen on the idea of staying.
As arranged, it was Sergeant Pemberton who performed all the
amenities and introductions between Her Supremacy, the Captain,
and Her Splendor, the Shanni. In the first place, his Oassish was
better, and, in the second, Newhouse wanted to observe the
expressions on the faces of the Shanni and the Shann.
The Shann was an elderly male who looked—naturally—rather
henpecked. He didn't say much; he just stood there and smiled half-
heartedly as the Shanni chatted in friendly fashion with her "sister,"
Captain Virginia Smith, through the fluent interpretation of
Pemberton. They might have been any ruling family of Earth
welcoming another chief executive.
Pemberton, of course, was giving the impression that Captain Smith
was the ruler of the alien fortress that was situated a hundred miles
away, on the banks of the Ngong River. The people of Oassi hadn't
been informed of the true origin of the Earthmen, nor would they
be; as far as Oassi was concerned, they came from a "far land," and
knew a little something about magic, but they weren't dangerous,
they just had to be watched, like any other non-Oassi group. And,
after all, Oassi had a much larger army and the magicians and
priests of Oassi had magic, too, didn't they? Sure they did.
And Earth, the capital of the United Commonwealth of Planets, not
only liked the way things stood, but demanded that they be kept
that way. Any civilization which appeared to be capable of lifting
itself by its own bootstraps should do so; at this stage of the game,
Man should not interfere. Of course, their very presence on the
planet had already changed, somewhat, the course of Oassi's
history, but that couldn't be helped; nothing can be observed
without affecting it.
The Shanni of Oassi appeared to be pleasantly impressed with
Captain Smith, just as Newhouse had figured. She had certainly not
been impressed by human males, which was perfectly
understandable. What would Haroun al Rashid have said if some
other country had sent a delegation of women to Baghdad?
Oh, the Shanni had been perfectly happy to agree to a treaty to
furnish gakgak milk for good, honest gold (well, maybe not too
honest; it was the product of an atomic converter), but that was just
business. Gold is fine stuff, even if a lowly male brings it.
But when it came to statesmanship, that was a different matter. The
Shanni seemed obviously more at home with Captain Smith, even if
the conversation did have to be filtered through Sergeant
Pemberton.
After a minute or two, the Shanni turned to a nearby officer and
gave her a slight nod. The whole guard unit wheeled about in
precision array and everyone marched into the citadel: a half dozen
guards in the lead, followed by the Shanni and Shann, and Captain
Smith; Pemberton and Newhouse followed them, and behind the
two officers came the rest of the guardsmen. And last, but foremost,
came the carriers bearing the precious bundles of Earth-type food.

The banquet that night was a sumptuous, but somewhat lopsided

affair, Newhouse thought. The Oassi stuffed themselves like pigs,
and the four Earth people ate nothing. The Shanni already
understood that her guests, for some mysterious reason, could not
partake of Oassi food.
Boccaccio di Vino and his wife, the Shannil, had made their
appearance, and di Vino, still a diplomat, put on an excellent face,
but there was worry in his eyes.
Newhouse wanted to pump some information out of him, but he
didn't dare address him in English, for fear that the Shanni might
suspect a plot was being fomented at her banquet table, right under
her nose. But that was just the reason why he had told Captain
Smith not even to speak the few words of Oassish that she did
know.

He smiled at her and said: "Captain, I'm going to be talking to our

friend, the bridegroom, but pretend I'm addressing you. I'm not
going to mention your name," he went on, knowing that di Vino was
listening, "because they'd recognize the words. Captain, say
something in a questioning tone. Something fairly long."
"Fine," she said, "because I do have a question to ask. How long do
you think we'll have to be here before we can get our diplomat out?"
"I don't know. That's why I want to ask some questions." Then he
turned to the Shanni and smiled. "Her Supremacy wishes to inquire
as to the health of the royal family, if that is not forbidden by rules
of etiquette." He knew perfectly well that it wasn't.
"Not at all," said the Shanni, in her rather high, brittle voice. "Our
family is quite well. All sound in body and mind. Although—" A small
smile came to her face, and something shone in her eyes. "—we
await fertile eggs."
"I see." He turned to Captain Smith, but his words were obviously
meant for di Vino. "Don't speak to Smith until I've spoken to you in
Oassish. What I want to know is, how many unfertile clutches of
eggs has your wife produced so far, and how long is the production
cycle?"
Captain Smith nodded. "Tell me, what am I supposed to do?"
"Just look at the Shanni and smile, then smile very benignly on the
Shannil."
While that was going on, Newhouse turned pleasantly to di Vino.
"And how are you and your wife, Your Eminence?"
"Quite well, thank you," said di Vino suavely. "We expect to have a
family before long, you know."
"Indeed? I hope your attempts will be successful."
"We all do," said the Shannil in a smooth voice. Looking at her,
Newhouse could see why, in spite of her alienness, she had been the
cause of di Vino's troubles.
There was a momentary silence around the room.
Then di Vino looked at Smith and said casually: "I don't know who
you are, Lieutenant, but if you can get me out of this mess, you can
have my right arm. To answer your question, my—uh—wife produces
an egg every sixty-five days or thereabouts. The fertilization has to
take place about twenty days before the cycle is completed. Since
I've been here, she's produced two. If the next one isn't fertile, I'll
end up in the family mausoleum, accompanied by much
lamentation." He paused and smiled at Captain Smith expectantly.
Smith smiled back. "I have a question, if you two don't mind. If
that's the case, it seems to me that these people could have a child
every sixty-five days. They'd have overrun the planet centuries ago."
"No," di Vino said. "Even the cycles have cycles—or epicycles,
maybe. The females produce three or four, stop for about four years
before another cycle comes on. I just happened to catch this girl at
the wrong time; otherwise, I wouldn't be married now."
"I see," said the captain. She smiled pleasantly.
Before di Vino could say anything in answer, the Shanni's voice cut in
—rather sharply, Newhouse thought. "Are you a relative of the
Kapteen, my dear?" she asked di Vino.
"No, Your Splendor," said di Vino.
"Well, in Oassi, well-bred princes don't speak to visiting ladies to
whom they are not related. And remember, my dear, you're an Oassi
now."
"I beg forgiveness, your Splendor," di Vino said humbly.
That put somewhat of a chill on the whole dinner party.
Conversation from that point on was utterly innocuous and utterly
boring.
Newhouse only got one more small piece of information. The
Shanni's consort, the Shann, had made a remark about having
"produced his three eggs," and further conversation elicited the
information that each Shanni or Shannil was supposed to have three
children by her consort. Newhouse marked it down in his mental
files for later use when he formed a plan.

When the meal was finally finished, the visitors were taken to their
quarters in a wing of the citadel reserved for visitors, well away from
the wing reserved for the Shanni and Shann.
The citadel itself was built strongly, with the thick walls of a fortress,
and the heavy silverwood doors—white as limed oak and hard as
teak—were capable of being barred from either side. Although the
Earthmen were not locked in, there was an "honor" guard in the hall
outside, and Newhouse had no doubt that any idea he might have of
roaming about the citadel would be politely but firmly vetoed.

The apartment that had been assigned to them was hardly

comfortable by modern Terrestrial standards, though a medieval
English baron would probably have been cozy enough.
"Looks like a jail, sir," said Sergeant Pemberton as he surveyed the
room.
"It is," said Newhouse. "I'm afraid that freedom of the grounds isn't
on our agenda." He walked over to the door that connected his and
the sergeant's room with the one next to it.
"Come in, Lieutenant," said Virginia Smith.
Newhouse pushed open the heavy door. "I'm going to take a flit
about the citadel, Captain," he said. "Would you and the sergeant
whip up something to eat? I shouldn't be gone long."
"All right. But watch yourself. My Supremacy might be a little hard
put to explain what you were doing if you got caught."
"Don't worry; I'm supposed to get an Earthman out of a jam, not get
another one in. You want to give me that harness?"
"Sure. Close the door and give me two minutes."
Newhouse did as he'd been asked. Captain Smith had been wearing
an antigrav harness under her robes. Since none of the three was
obviously carrying a sword, axe, or spear, it had been assumed that
they were unarmed, except, perhaps, for a small dagger or the like,
which was perfectly permissible. But the Oassi had no idea what the
term "miniaturization" meant. Newhouse, Pemberton, and Smith
were all armed to the teeth.
Even so, an antigravity unit required extra clothing to cover it; the
uniforms of Pemberton and Newhouse were a little too close-fitting
to hide it completely.
Captain Smith was better than her word. Less than two minutes
later, she opened the door and handed Newhouse the harness. The
lieutenant put it on and walked over to the narrow, slit-like window
that looked out on the courtyard.
Dynak was a moonless planet, and, at this time of year, the stars
that might have shone in the night sky were obscured by the black
blanket of a nearby dark nebula, a great dust-cloud that shrouded
most of the sky.
Except for the flickering torches in the courtyard below and the glow
of candlelight from the windows of the citadel, the walls of the
citadel were in utter darkness. Certainly the guards forty feet below
couldn't see a man crawling along the walls, and they probably
wouldn't believe their eyes if they did.
Newhouse then adjusted the power unit to a point where he only
weighed a few ounces and lifted his feet off the floor, doubling his
knees up against his abdomen. Since his mass remained the same,
he drifted downwards very slowly under the slight pull of attenuated
gravity.
"You're not completely neutralized," Captain Smith then pointed out.
"I don't want to be," Newhouse said. "I've got to have a little weight
so that I can get a fingertip purchase on that rough wall. Otherwise,
I'm likely to push myself away from it, and I don't want to use the
air jet unless I have to." He landed lightly on his heels and then
stood up slowly, so as not to push himself off the floor again. He
slid, rather than walked, back to the window. "Bye, kiddies," he said.
"Save me a sandwich." And he eased himself out the window.

He was gone longer than he had thought he would be. It took him
nearly an hour to find which of the windows in the royal wing
opened into Boccaccio di Vino's bedroom, moving himself carefully
across the stone wall of the citadel, avoiding windows, staying out of
sight of the patrols that walked the upper parapets, and keeping his
ears open for the distinctive sound of the Earthman's voice. He even
found time to curse the nomadic tribes that roamed the grass plains
to the south because their very existence kept the city of Oassi in a
perpetual state of preparedness against raids, which meant that
there were lookouts and guards all over the place and he had to be
extra cautious.
At each window, he had to skirt around it, pause and listen, then
carefully ease a tiny spy-eye out to take a look inside, until he found
di Vino's quarters.
 For the royal couple the future did not look bright.

When he finally found them, he had to wait another ten minutes

while di Vino and the young Shannil concluded a rather strained
conversation. When the Shannil walked off toward her own room,
Newhouse peeked his head around the edge of the window and
said: "Hssst! Di Vino!"
The young diplomat jerked his head around quickly. When he saw
who it was, he ran quickly to the window. "What is it?" he asked.
"Are we getting out of here?"
"Not just yet. I'm getting you out of here all nice and legal-like, if I
can. We won't use force except as the last resort." He didn't add that
such a "very last resort" might be too late for di Vino.
"But—how?"
"Never mind that now; I've got to get some information. It's vitally
necessary. I tried to get it at the banquet, but the Shanni shut you
up."
"Sure. Anything you want."
"Well, I know all about the cyclic pattern of Dynakian reproduction,
but I need specific information. Times and dates, right down to the
minute, if possible."
"That's easy," di Vino said wryly. "The Shanni is keeping pretty
accurate records, and so is Oanella. She knows by now that I don't
love her, and she's going to be perfectly happy to get rid of me. She
—"
"Never mind that now!" Newhouse snapped in irritation. "The dates
man! The dates!"
Hurriedly, di Vino told him. When he did, Newhouse breathed a sigh
of relief. "Good! We've got three days yet!" He fished into his jacket
and came out with a small, black cylinder a little larger than a
cigarette, with a small stud at one end. "You know how to use a
sleep gun?"
Di Vino nodded.
"Good. Take it. Keep it on you at all times. Day after tomorrow when
Oanella goes to sleep for the night, use it on her. But, for heavens
sake, wait till she gets to sleep. Got that?"
"Right. Then what?"
"Then wait for me to show up. That sleep gun's got a signal built
into it. As soon as you shoot her, I'll know about it. All you'll have to
do is blow out your candles, so that there's no light coming from
your room. Got that?"
"I've got it. But—"
There were footsteps outside the door. "So long," Newhouse
whispered. "Don't slip up." He moved away from the window just as
the door opened, and he heard the Shannil say: "What's so
interesting at the window, dear? Getting homesick?" There was more
than a trace of sarcasm in her voice.
Newhouse made his way back to his own quarters as fast as he
could.
"Hope I didn't worry anyone," he said as he popped into the
window.
"Nope," said Pemberton. "We figured if you'd been caught there
would have been an uproar and we'd have heard about it. Come in
and have a sandwich. And some coffee."
"In a minute," said Newhouse. "I've got some radioing to do."
"The call box is on the table," said Captain Virginia Smith.

The next day was largely devoted to discussion between Her

Supremacy, the Captain, and Her Splendor, the Shanni, on the
increased production of gakgak milk. The Shanni, after much careful
negotiation, promised that more would be forthcoming.
Newhouse, personally, had a hunch that the Shanni was trying to
negotiate a treaty with the southern nomads for gakgak milk, with
the intent of selling it to the Earthmen at a profit—which was all
right with everyone, if she could swing it.