Then he saw the weird little glass statuette among the usual bric-a-brac. It rather resembled a ground hog, had seven fingers on each of its six limbs, and smiled up at him as he stared. "Can I help you, sir?" a middle-aged saleswoman inquired. "Oh, good heavens, whatever is that thing doing here?" Pembroke watched with lifted eyebrows as the clerk whisked the bizarre statuette underneath the counter. "What the hell was that?" Pembroke demanded. "Oh, you know--or don't you? Oh, my," she concluded, "are you one of the--strangers?" "And if I were?" "Well, I'd certainly appreciate it if you'd tell me how I walk." * * * * * She came around in front of the counter and strutted back and forth a few times. "They tell me I lean too far forward," she confided. "But I should think you'd fall down if you didn't." "Don't try to go so fast and you won't fall down," suggested Pembroke. "You're in too much of a hurry. Also those fake flowers on your blouse make you look frumpy." "Well, I'm supposed to look frumpy," the woman retorted. "That's the type of person I am. But you can look frumpy and still walk natural, can't you? Everyone says you can." "Well, they've got a point," said Pembroke. "Incidentally, just where are we, anyway? What city is this?" "Puerto Pacifico," she told him. "Isn't that a lovely name? It means peaceful port. In Spanish." That was fine. At least he now knew where he was. But as he left the shop he began checking off every west coast state, city, town, and inlet. None, to the best of his knowledge, was called Puerto Pacifico. He headed for the nearest service station and asked for a map. The attendant gave him one which showed the city, but nothing beyond. "Which way is it to San Francisco?" asked Pembroke. "That all depends on where you are," the boy returned. "Okay, then where am I?" "Pardon me, there's a customer," the boy said. "This is Puerto Pacifico." Pembroke watched him hurry off to service a car with a sense of having been given the runaround. To his surprise, the boy came back a few minutes later after servicing the automobile. "Say, I've just figured out who you are," the youngster told him. "I'd sure appreciate it if you'd give me a little help on my lingo. Also, you gas up the car first, then try to sell 'em the oil--right?" "Right," said Pembroke wearily. "What's wrong with your lingo? Other than the fact that it's not colloquial enough." "Not enough slang, huh? Well, I guess I'll have to concentrate on that. How about the smile?" "Perfect," Pembroke told him. "Yeah?" said the boy delightedly. "Say, come back again, huh? I sure appreciate the help. Keep the map." "Thanks. One more thing," Pembroke said. "What's over that way--outside the city?" "Sand." "How about that way?" he asked, pointing north. "And that way?" pointing south. "More of the same." "Any railroads?" "That we ain't got." "Buses? Airlines?" The kid shook his head. "Some city."