Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net HELPFULLY YOURS By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Illustration] [Sidenote: _"Come down to Earth--and stay there!" is a humiliating order for somebody with wings!_] Tarb Morfatch had read all the information on Terrestrial customs that was available in the _Times_ morgue before she'd left Fizbus. And all through the journey she'd studied her _Brief Introduction to Terrestrial Manners and Mores_ avidly. Perhaps it was a bit overinspirational in spots, but it had facts in it, too. So she knew that, since the natives were non-alate, she was not to take wing on Earth. She had, however, forgotten to correlate the knowledge of their winglessness with her own vertical habits. As a result, on leaving the tender that had ferried her down from the Moon, she looked up instead of right and narrowly escaped death at the jaws of a raging groundcar that swerved out onto the field. She recognized it as a taxi from one of the pictures in the handbook. It was a pity, she thought sadly as she was knocked off her feet, that all those lessons she had so carefully learned were to go to waste. But it was only the wind of the car's passage that had thrown her down. As she struggled to get up, hampered by her awkward native skirts, the door of the taxi flew open. A tall young man--a Fizbian--burst out, the soft yellowish-green down on his handsome face bristling with fright until each feather stood out separately. "Miss Morfatch! Are you all right?" "Just--just a little shaky," she murmured, brushing dirt from her rosy leg feathers. _Too young to be Drosmig; too good-looking to be anyone important, she thought glumly. Must be the office boy._ To her surprise, he didn't help her up. Probably it would violate some native taboo if he did, she deduced. The handbook hadn't mentioned anything that seemed to apply, but, after all, a little book like that couldn't cover everything. * * * * * She could see the young man was embarrassed--his emerald crest was waving to and fro. "I'm Stet Zarnon," he introduced himself awkwardly. The Managing Editor! The handsome young employer of her girlish dreams! But perhaps he had a wife on Fizbus--no, the Grand Editor made a point of hiring people without families to use as a pretext for expensive vacations on the Home Planet.