Onward we trekked, a sunburnt duo casting long bronze shadows across the burning sands of K'niik K'naak. A thin plume of Yekkweed fumes marked our passage. It was nearly sunset when we spotted the pink glitter of that sickening slop that is the Polaris III excuse for water. I stood watching the sunset, while Mimp unloaded all the gear and began to set up camp. As the last rays faded in the sky, I turned and entered the pseudolog hut Mimp had inflated. Hard on his lungs, of course, but I hadn't wanted to burden him with the extra weight of a hand-pump. I'm a stern man, but I'm fair. He had my slippers laid out beside the armchair by the fire and a cool mint julep awaiting me on the small teakwood taboret. He was busying himself in the kitchenette, whipping up a quick souffle with one hand and tossing a small salad with the other. "Hurry it up there," I growled jovially. "Time is money, time is money!" A bit of friendly joshing is good for the relationship; shows Mimp I'm tolerant of him sharing the same quarters, without actually making me act like an equal, if you know what I mean. "I hurry, Sahib," said Mimp. "Coming up." (He always called me Sahib.) He rushed across the room and began setting the table, with my pearl-handled silverware. "No, not there," I yawned, picking up my julep and settling back into the armchair. "I think I'd like the table nearer the piano, so you can play Chopin Nocturnes while I dine." I added, as a kindly afterthought, "You can reheat your share of the souffle later, after I've gone to bed." Personally, I hate cold souffle. "Yes, Effendi," said Mimp. (He always called me Effendi.) Rapidly, he moved the table over to the Steinway, set out the finished souffle and salad and then hurried to the piano and began laboriously plunking out glorious melody. I took a sip of my julep, then spat it out on the carpet. "Mimp!" I roared, incensed. "Did you make this drink with Polaris III water?" Craven and cowering, he fell at my feet, whining for mercy. But I was adamant. You let an alien take an inch, and the next thing, he's swiped a parsec. "The knout," I said, keeping my voice emotionless and holding out my hand. "Please, Kimosabe," whimpered Mimp, "I dared not use the water in the canteens. You know that Polaris III water is poisonous to us Andromedans, while you Earthmen can tolerate it." "I can _not_!" I raged. "I was speaking medically," he mewed piteously. "And I, esthetically," I snarled. "The knout, now, and be quick about it." He scurried on all fours to the bureau where I kept my odds and ends, and came crawling back with the brutal leather whip. I weighed the infraction, decided that three stripes should be lesson enough and I laid them onto his bare back with a steady hand. "Now," I said, wearied by the effort, "play something gay and lilting." Hastily, he dragged himself to the Steinway and complied. Dinner was really delicious. * * * * *