control. "Interview herfirst. We'll talk this over when you get back."
* * * * *
It was pleasant to be away from the office, she thought as the taxipulled toward the airfield, and doing wingwork again, even if it provedto be the first and last time on this planet. Griblo sat hunched in acorner of the seat, too preoccupied with the camera, which, even aftertwo years, he hadn't fully mastered, to pay attention to her.
Outside, it was raining, the kind of thin drizzle that, on Fizbus orEarth, could go on for days. Tarb had brought along the native umbrellashe had purchased in the hotel gift shop--a delightful contraption thatwas supposed to keep off the rain and didn't, and was supposed tocollapse and did, but at the wrong moments. She planned to take it backwith her when she returned to Fizbus. Approved souvenir or not, it wasthe same beautiful purple as her eyes. And, besides, who had made theruling about approved souvenirs? Stet, of course.
"No reason why we couldn't have autofax brought from Home," Griblosuddenly grumbled.
Tarb pulled herself back from her thoughts. "I suppose Stet wouldn't letyou," she said. "But now that one scripto's here," she went on somewhatcomplacently, "he'll have to--"
"Keep this planet charming and unspoiled, he says," Griblo interruptedungratefully. "Its spiritual values will be corrupted by too muchcontact with a crass advanced technology. And, of course, he's got thelocal camera manufacturers solidly behind him. I wonder whether theyadvertise in the _Times_ because he helps keep autofax off Terra orwhether he keeps the autofax off Terra because they advertise in the_Times_."
"But what does he care about advertising? He may talk as if he owned the_Times_, but he doesn't."
Griblo gave a nasty laugh. "No, he doesn't, but if the Terran editiondidn't show a profit, it'd fold quicker than you can flip your wings andhe'd have to go back to nasty old up-to-date Fizbus as a lowlysub-editor. And he wouldn't like that one bit. Our Stet, as you may havenoticed, is fond of running things to suit himself."
"But Mr. Grupe told me that the _Times_ isn't interested in money. It'srunning this edition of the paper only as a service to--oh, I supposeall that was a lot of birdseed, too!"
"Grupe!" Griblo snorted. "The sanctimonious old buzzard! He's a bigstockholder on the paper. Bet you didn't know that, did you? All they'reout for is money. Fizbian money, Terrestrial money--so long as it'scash."
"Tell me, Griblo," Tarb asked, "what does 'When in Rome, do as theRomans do' mean?"
Griblo grinned sourly. "Stet's favorite motto." He moved along the seatcloser to her. "I'll tell you what it means, chicken. When on Earth,don't be a Fizbian."
* * * * *
The consul's wife, an old mauve creature, did not seem overpleased tosee Tarb, since the younger, prettier Fizbian definitely took thespotlight away from her. The press had, of course, seen Tarb before, butat that time they hadn't been able to communicate directly with her andthey didn't, she now found out, think nearly as much of Stet as he didof them.
Tarb couldn't attempt to deviate much from Stet's questions, for theconsul's wife was not very cooperative and the consul himself watchedboth women narrowly. He was a good friend of Stet's, Tarb knew, andapparently Stet had taken the other man into his confidence.
When the interviews were over and the consular party had left, Tarbremained to chat with the Terrestrial journalists. Despite Griblo'sworried objections, she joined them in the Moonfield Restaurant, whereshe daringly partook of a cup of coffee and then another and another.
After that, things weren't very clear. She dimly remembered the otherreporters assuring her that she shouldn't disfigure her lovely wingswith a stole ... and then pirouetting in the air over the bar toprolonged applause ... and then she was in the taxi again with Gribloshaking her.
"Wake up, Tarb--we're almost at the office! Stet'll have me plucked forthis!"
Tarb sat up and pushed her crest out of her eyes. The sky was growingdark. They must have been gone a long time.
"I'll never hear the end of this," Griblo moaned. "Why, if only he couldget someone to fill my place, Stet would fire me like a shot! Not that Iwouldn't quit if I could get another job."
"Oh, it'll be mostly me he'll be mad at." Tarb pulled out her compact.Stet had warned her not to polish her eyeballs in public, but the groundwith him! Her head hurt. And her feathers, she saw in the mirror, hadturned almost beige. She looked horrible. She felt horrible. And Stetwould probably think she was horrible.
"When Stet's mad," Griblo prophesied darkly, "he's mad at _everybody_!"
And Stet _was_ mad. He was waiting in the newsroom, his emerald-blueeyes blazing as if he had not only polished but lacquered them.
"What's the idea of taking six hours to cover a simple story!" heshouted as soon as the door began to open. "Aside from the trivialmatter of a deadline to be met--Griblo, _where's Tarb_? Nothing'shappened to her, has it?"
"Naaah," Griblo said, unslinging his camera. "She took a short cut,only she got held up by a terrace. Snagged her umbrella on it, Ibelieve. I heard her yelling when I was waiting for the elevator;I didn't know nice girls knew language like that. She should be upany minute now.... There she is."
He pointed to a window, through which the lissome form of the youngfeature writer could be seen, tapping on the glass in order to attractattention.
"Somebody better open it for her," the cameraman suggested. "Probablynot meant to open from the outside. Not many people come in that way, Iguess."
* * * * *
Open-mouthed, the whole newsroom stared at the window. Finally the CopyEditor got up and let a dripping Tarb in.
"Nearly thought I wouldn't make it," she observed, shaking herself in aflurry of wet pink feathers. The rest of the staff ducked, most of themtoo late. "Umbrella didn't do much good," she continued, closing it. Itleft a little puddle on the rug. "My wings got soaked right away." Shetossed her wet crest out of her eyes. "Golly, but it's good to flyagain. Haven't done it for months, but it seems like years." Her eyecaught Miss Snow's. "You don't know what you're missing!"
"Tarb," Stet thundered, "you've been drinking coffee! _Griblo!_" But thecameraman had nimbly sought sanctuary in the dark-room.
"You'd better go home, Tarb." When Stet's eye tufts met across his nose,he was downright ugly, she realized. "Griblo can give me the dope andI'll write up the story myself. I can fill it out with canned copy. Andyou and I will discuss this situation in the morning."
"Won't go home when there's work to be done. Duty calls me." Giving abrief and quite recognizable imitation of a Terrestrial trumpet, Tarbstalked down the corridor to her office.
Drosmig looked up from his perch, to which he was still miraculouslyclinging at that hour. "So it got you, too?... Sorry ... nice girl."
"It hasn't got me," Tarb replied, picking up a letter marked _Urgent_."I've got it." She scanned the letter, then made hastily for Stet'soffice.
He sat drumming on his desk with the antique stainless steel spatula heused as a paperknife.
"Read this!" she demanded, thrusting the letter into his face. "Readthis, you traitor--sacrificing our whole civilization to what's mostexpedient for you! Hypocrite! Cad!"
"Tarb, listen to me! I'm--"
"Read it!" She slapped the letter down in front of him. "Read it and seewhat you've done to us! Sure, we Fizbians keep to ourselves and so theonly people who know anything about us are the ones who want to sell usbrushes, while the people who want to help us don't know a damn thingabout us and--"
"Oh, all right! I'll read it if you'll only keep quiet!" He turned theletter right-side up.
_Johannesburg_
_Dear Senbot Drosmig:_
_I represent the Dzoglian Publishing Company, Inc., of which I know you have heard, since your paper has seen fit to give our books some of the most unjust reviews on record. However, be that as it may, I have opened an office on Earth with the laudable purpose of effecting an interchan
ge of respective literatures, to see which Terrestrial books might most profitably be translated into Fizbian, and which of the authors on our own list might have potential appeal for the Earth reader._
_Dealing with authors is, of course, a nerve-racking business and I soon found myself in dire need of mental treatment. What was my horror to find that this primitive, although charming,