planet had no neurotones, no psychoscopes, not even any cerebrophones--in fact, no psychiatric machines at all! The very knowledge of this brought me several degrees closer to a breakdown._
_Perhaps I should have consulted you at this juncture, but I admit I was a bit of a snob. "What sort of advice can a mere journalist give me," I thought, "that I could not give myself?" So, more for amusement than anything else, I determined to consult a native practitioner. "After all," I said to myself, "a good laugh is a step forward on the road to recovery."_
_Accordingly, I went to see this native fellow. They work entirely without machines, I understand, using something like witchcraft. At the same time, I thought I might pick up some material for a jolly little book on primitive customs which I could get some unknown writer to throw together inexpensively. Strong human interest items like that always have great reader-appeal._
_The native chap--doctor, he calls himself--was most cordial, which he should have been at the price I was paying him. One thing I must say about these natives--backward they may be, but they have a very shrewd commercial sense. You can't even imagine the trouble I had getting those authors to sign even remotely reasonable contracts ... which in part accounts for my mental disturbance, I suppose._
_Well, anyway, I handed the native a privacy waiver carefully filled out in Terran. He took it, smiled and said, "We'll discuss this afterward. My contact lenses have disappeared; I suppose one of my patients has stolen them again. Can't see a thing without them."_
_So we sat down and had a bit of a chat. He seemed remarkably intelligent for a native; never interrupted me once._
_"You are definitely in great trouble," he told me when I'd finished. "You need to be psycho-analyzed."_
_"Good, good," I said. "I see I've come to the right shop."_
_"Now just lie down and make yourself comfortable."_
_"Lie down?" I repeated, puzzled. I have an excellent command of Terran, but every now and then an idiom will throw me. "I tell the truth, sir, and when I am required by force of circumstances to lie, I lie up."_
_"No," he said, "not that kind of lying. You know, the kind you do at night when you go to sleep."_
_"Oh, I get you," I said idiomatically. Without further ado, I flung off my ulster and flew up to a thingummy hanging from the ceiling--chandelier, I believe, is the native term--flipped upside down, and hung from it by my toes. Wasn't the Presidential Perch, by any means, but it wasn't bad at all. "What do I do next?" I inquired affably._
_"My dear fellow," the chap said, whipping out a notebook from the recesses of his costume, "how long have you had this delusion that you are a bird--or is it a bat?"_
_"Sir," I said as haughtily as my position permitted, "I am neither a bird nor a bat. I am a Fizbian. Surely you have heard of Fizbians?"_
_"Yes, yes, of course. They come from another country or planet or something. Frankly, politics is a bit outside my sphere. All I'm interested in is people--and Fizbians are people, aren't they?"_
_"Yes, certainly. If anything, it's you who.... Yes, they are people."_
_"Well, tell me then, Mr. Liznig, when was it you first started thinking you were a bat or a bird?"_
_I tried to control myself. "I am neither a bird nor a bat! I am a Fizbian! I have wings! See?" I fluttered them._
_He peered at me. "I wish I could," he said regretfully. "Without my glasses, though, I'm as blind as a bat--or a bird."_
_Well, the long and the short of it is that the natives are planning to certify me as insane and incarcerate me, pending the doctor's decision as to whether my delusion is that I am a bird or a bat. They are using my privacy waiver as commitment papers._
_Save me, Senbot Drosmig, for I feel that if I have to wait for the doctor's glasses to be delivered, I shall indeed go mad._
_Distractedly yours,_
_Tgos Liznig_
"I'll handle this myself," Stet said crisply. "I'll tell the consul toadvise the Terran State Department that this man should be deported asan undesirable alien. That'll solve the problem neatly. We can't havethis contaminating the pure stream of Terrestrial literature with--"
"But aren't you going to explain to them that he's perfectly sane?" Tarbgasped.
"No need to bother. He'll be grateful enough to get off the planet.Besides, how do I know he is perfectly sane?"
"Stet Zarnon, you're perfectly horrid!"
"And you, Tarb Morfatch, are disgustingly drunk. Now you go right homeand sleep it off. I know I was too harsh with you--my fault for lettingyou go out alone with Griblo in the first place when you've been hereonly a few months. Might have known those Terran journalists would leadyou astray. Nice fellows, but irresponsible." He flicked out his tongue."There, I've apologized. Now will you go home?"
"Home!" Tarb shrieked. "Home when there's work to be done and--"
"--and you're not going to be the one to do it. Tarb," he said,attempting to seize her foot, which she pulled away, "I was going totell you tomorrow, but you might as well know tonight. I've taken youoff the column for good. I have a better job for you."
She looked at him. "A better job? Are you being sarcastic? What as?"
"As my wife." He got up and came over to her. She stood still, almoststunned. "That solves the whole problem tidily. An office is no placefor you, darling--you're really a simple home-girl at heart. Newspaperwork is too strenuous for you; it upsets you and makes you nervous andirritable. I want you to stay home and take care of our house and hatchour eggs--unostentatiously, of course."
"Why, you--" she spluttered.
He put his foot over her mouth. "Don't give me your answer now. You'rein no condition to think. Tell me tomorrow."
* * * * *
It rained all night and continued on into the morning. Tarb's headached, but she had to make an appearance at the office. First she vizzedan acquaintance she had made the day before; then she took her umbrellaand set forth.
As she kicked open the door to the newsroom, all sound ceased. Voicesstopped abruptly. Typewriters halted in mid-click. Even the roar of thepresses downstairs suddenly seemed to mute. Every head turned to look atTarb.
_Humph_, she thought, removing her plastic oversocks, _so suppose I wasa little oblique yesterday. They needn't stare at me. They never stareat Drosmig. Just because I'm a woman, I suppose!_ The gate crashedloudly behind her.
"Oh, Miss Morfatch," Miss Snow called. "Mr. Zarnon said he wanted tosee you as soon as you came in. It's urgent." And she giggled.
"Really?" Tarb said. "Well, he'll just have to wait until I've wrung outmy wings." Sooner or later, she would have to face Stet, but she wantedto put it off as long as possible.
She opened the door to her office and halted in amazement. For, seatedon a stool behind the desk, haggard but vertical, was Senbot Drosmig,busily reading letters and blue-penciling comments on them with hisfeet.
"Good morning, my dear," he said, giving her a wan smile. "Surprised tosee me functioning again, eh?"
"Well--yes." She opened her dripping umbrella mechanically and stood itin a corner. "How--"
"I realized last night that all that happened to you was my fault. Youwere my responsibility and I failed you."
"Oh, don't be melodramatic, Senbot. I wasn't your responsibility and youdidn't fail me. Not that I'm not glad to see you up and doing again,but--"
"But I did fail you!" the aged journalist insisted. "And, in the sameway, I failed my people. I shouldn't have given in. I should have foughtZarnon as you, my dear, tried to do. But it isn't too late!" The fire ofthe crusader lit up in his watery old eyes. "I can still fight him andhis sacred crows--his Earthlings! If I have to, I can go over his headto Grupe. Grupe may not understand Stet's moral fai
lings, but hecertainly will comprehend his commercial ones. Grupe owns stock in otherFizbian enterprises besides the _Times_. Autofax, for example."
"Oh, Senbot!" Tarb wailed. "The whole thing's such an awful mess!"
"I don't think it'll be necessary to threaten that far," he comfortedher. "Stet is no fool. He knows which side of his breadnut is peeled."
"I'm sure you'll do a wonderful job,"