This visitor’s skin, however, was of a color so monstrous it simply had to be seen to be believed. In fact, it wasn’t the same color in any two places—it VARIED! His teeth were white; a horrible, dead-bone color. His lips, hair, and eyes—funny, round, flat-opening things—were of still other sheerly unbelievable colors—there wasn’t a _bit_ of natural, healthy pink about him anywhere! Thus the crowds of Chickladorians studied him much more intensively than he studied them; and Maluleme, strutting along at his side, basked visibly in the limelight. And thus, except for the two Chickladorians at his side and except for the unobtrusive but efficient secret-service men who kept the crowding throng in hand, Cloud could very well have been mobbed. The walk was very short, and at its end: “How long we got to stay, boss?” Thlaskin asked, in spaceal. “As soon as we can get away we want to join our folks and grab a jet for home.” “As far as I’m concerned you don’t need to stay at all, or even come. Why?” “Just checking, is all. His Nibs sent us a special bid, so we got to at least show up. But he don’t know us from nothing, so after we tell him hello and dance a couple of rounds and slurp a couple of slugs we can scram and nobody’ll know it unless you spill.” “No spill,” Cloud assured him. “You dance with Maluleme first. I’ll take the second—that’ll drive it in that she’s here. After that, flit as soon as you like. For the record, you’ll be here until the last gilot is picked clean.” “Thanks, boss,” and the three, entering the extravagantly-decorated Grand Ballroom, were escorted ceremoniously up to the Presence and the Notables and their surrounding V. I. P.’s. They were welcomed effusively, Cloud being informed through several different interpreters that he was the third-most-important human being who had ever lived. He made—through two interpreters, each checking the other’s accuracy—his usual deprecatory speech concerning the extinguishment of loose atomic vortices. He led the Grand March with the president’s wife, a lady whose name he did not quite catch and who, except for a pound or so of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and other baubles, was just as bare as Maluleme was. So was the equally heavily bejeweled mayor’s wife, with whom he had the first dance. She was neither young or slender, nor was she sexy. Then, as agreed, he danced with Maluleme, who was—but definitely!—all three. However, as he circled the floor in time with the really excellent music, he thought, not of the attractive package of femininity in his arms—who was one of his crew and Thlaskin’s wife—but of Joan. She’d been training down, he’d noticed, and wearing more makeup, since those other girls had come aboard. She was getting to be a regular seven-sector callout—he’d _like_ to dance with Joan this way!