Andy was still suspicious. He said, "Ethical or not, he got the promotion." * * * * * They stood at the edge of the only launching pad on Felix II, and surveyed the landscape. Thirty feet away, there was a barnsized stone building with a weedy roof. Aside from some rounded blue hills in the distance, and a Felician leaning against the building, there was not much to detain the eye. Miss Featherpenny giggled softly in surprise. "He looks like a leprechaun," she said. "The sheet didn't say that." "Tourist trade," Andy breathed, his eyes gleaming with the solution of his problem. Since the two-foot-tall welcoming committee showed no signs of moving, they started toward him. "My name," Andy said in Galactic, "is Andrew Stephens. I'm here from Planetary Promotions." "I know," the Felician muttered ungraciously. "I came out from town to meet you. My name is Blahrog. Who's this?" "My steno, Miss Featherpenny." "Urk." Obviously Blahrog had never heard the term "steno" and was interpreting it freely. "I'm in charge of our admission to the Federation. That means I'm in charge of you." He eyed Andy unenthusiastically. "You haven't had much experience with this kind of thing, have you?" Andy had a wild rush of hope. If the Felician government rejected him as a representative, he could go home without a failure on his record, and pray for a simpler assignment. Even P. P. didn't consider an agent responsible for the unpredictable whims of aliens. "No, I haven't," he replied cheerfully. "I was hoping maybe you had." Miss Featherpenny, who hadn't read the contract, gasped. Blahrog, who had read the contract, replied, "I haven't. Let's get on into town where we can discuss the possibilities in comfort." They set out, walking unequally through the thick white dust that passed for paving on Felix II. "Don't you use ground cars?" Miss Featherpenny choked at the end of the first half-mile. "Don't have technology," Blahrog growled, stumping grimly along. "The Everking has a car, but he doesn't use it much. No fuel." As he walked, Andy composed a speech on the merits of the tourist business, to be delivered to the Everking. Miss Featherpenny grew visibly more depressed with each mile. She uttered an involuntary cry when the guard of the city gate appeared with a slender mug in each hand. "Felician ladies don't drink," Blahrog said gruffly. "I can fetch you a glass of water," the guard offered, without enthusiasm. "Thank you," said Miss Featherpenny, with an attempt at sincerity. The contents of his mug made Andy choke. "Tastes something like cider," he gasped. Blahrog downed his without a wink. "It's customary to give a guest a mug of Throatduster as a sign of gratitude because he walked so far in the dust." "In this dust," Miss Featherpenny murmured to her second glass of water, "any distance is far." "Thoughtful custom," Andy said quickly. "Could you export the beverage?"