He spent, in all, seventeen minutes in free fall. At 2000 feet, he opened his parachute. The sound was like an explosion. He floated quietly, recovering from the shock. He removed his oxygen mask and tasted the alien air. He sniffed several times. It was not unpleasant. Below was darkness. Then suddenly the ground came floating up and hit him. The terrain was irregular. He fought the chute to collapse it, tripped, and twisted his ankle painfully. The chute lay quiet and he sat on the ground and cursed in English. At length he bundled up the chute and removed all of the packages of money but the one disguised as a field pack. He used the shovel to dig a shallow grave at the base of a tree. He interred the chute, the oxygen cylinder, the mask, the shovel and scooped dirt over them with his hands. He sat down and unlaced his shoe and found his ankle badly swollen. Distant, unfamiliar odors filled him with apprehension and he started at the slightest sound. Dawn was breaking. III Noting his bearings carefully, he hobbled painfully westward, with thirty pounds of money on his back. He would intersect the major North-South Intercontinental highway by at least noon. Two hours later, he came to a small plastic cabin in a clearing at the edge of a forest. Wincing now with each step, he made his way to the door. He knocked. There was a long wait. The door opened. A girl stood before him in a dressing gown. She frowned and asked, "_Itsil obwatly jer gekompilp?_" Hearing Itraian spoken by a native in the flesh had a powerful emotional impact on Shamar the Worker. Stumblingly, he introduced himself and explained that he was camping out. During the previous night he had become lost and injured his ankle. If she could spare him food and directions, he would gladly pay. With a smile of superiority, she stepped aside and said in Itraian, "Come in, Chom the Worker." He felt panic, but he choked it back and followed her. Apparently he had horribly mispronounced his own name. It was as though, in English he had said Barchestershire for Barset. He cursed whatever Professor had picked that name for whatever obscure reason. "Sit down," she invited. "I'm about to have breakfast. Eggs and bacon--" the Itraian equivalent--"if that's all right with you. I'm Garfling Germadpoldlt by the way, although you can call me Ge-Ge." The food was quite unpleasant, as though overly ripe. He was able to choke down the eggs with the greatest difficulty. Fortunately, the hot drink that was the equivalent of Earth coffee at the end of the meal, was sufficiently spicy to quiet his stomach. "Good coffee," he said. "Thank you. Care for a cigarette?" "I sure would." He had no matches, so she lit it for him, hovering above him a moment, leaving with him the fresh odor of her hair. The taste of the cigarette was mild. Rather surprisingly, it substituted for nicotine and allayed the sharp longing that had come with the coffee.