"Sell Throatduster?" Blahrog was indignant. "It would be a breach of hospitality. Besides, Felix II can't produce enough second-rate stuff, let alone first-rate. Sometimes, in a bad year, we have to greet guests with water." "What a pity," said Miss Featherpenny. * * * * * She became increasingly unsympathetic as Andy swallowed another Throatduster at the door of the Palace (a one-story building similar to a small barn), and yet another in the presence of the Everking (an eighteen-inch Felician with a beard-warmed paunch). Andy watched the Everking dim and blur on his wooden throne. Swaying slightly, he muttered, "I wonder what proof this stuff is?" "In short, Mr. Stephens," Blahrog was translating, "we cannot think of a single product which we could sell. Have you any immediate suggestions?" Blahrog's expression indicated that he ought to say something, but Andy couldn't think of a thing, except that he didn't need any more Throatduster. "No," he said firmly, if faintly. "Thank you very much, but no." He passed out cold. "I'm afraid the journey was too much for him," Miss Featherpenny put in. "Ah, yes," Blahrog translated for the Everking. "Throatduster has that effect on some life forms. Perhaps he had better retire, and discuss the situation more fully tomorrow." The Everking motioned to a pair of stout-looking guards (thirty inches tall, at least). They towed Miss Featherpenny's immediate superior out of the royal presence. "They will show him to his room," Blahrog explained. The Everking let loose a quick stream of Felician. "Would you," Blahrog addressed Miss Featherpenny, "enjoy meeting my daughter? The Everking suggests it, since our affairs could hardly be of interest to you." "I'd be very pleased." The words were not empty ones. Edith Featherpenny's education in coping with men had not extended to Felician males. Blahrog frightened her with a feeling of superior and incomprehensible intelligence. Hrom, although seventeen inches tall and weighing perhaps eleven pounds, was definitely feminine and comprehensible. "Why don't women drink Throatduster?" Miss Featherpenny asked, on the strength of a two-hour acquaintance. "The men grow the grain here," Hrom explained, "and it's theirs as long as it's in the fields. However, we consider harvesting women's work. We also make the Throatduster. Then we sell it to the men. We don't drink because it is uneconomical." "Does everyone grow his own grain?" "Not any more. Town women have other sources of dress money. The custom started that way, that's all." "If you'll forgive my saying so," Miss Featherpenny remarked, "that dress you are wearing must have taken a big chunk out of your pocket." Hrom sighed. "In my mother's time, I would have thought nothing of it. Now, one such gown is all I can afford." "I would have thought your father was one of the wealthier men on Felix II," Miss Featherpenny remarked.