"Local slang," chipped in Grayder. "An awful lot of it develops in four centuries.

I've come across one or two worlds where there has been so much of it that to all intents and purposes it formed a new language."

"He understood your speech?" asked the Ambassador of Shelton.

"Yes, Your Excellency. And his own is quite good. But he won't leave his work."

He reflected briefly, suggested, "If it were left to me I'd bring him in by force with

an armed escort."

"That would encourage him to give essential information," commented the Ambassador with open sarcasm. He patted his stomach, smoothed his jacket, glanced down at his glossy shoes. "Nothing for it but to go and speak to him myself."

Shelton was shocked. "Your Excellency, you can't do that."

"Why can't I?"

"It would be undignified."

"I am fully aware of the fact," said the Ambassador dryly. "What alternative do you suggest?"

"We can send out a patrol to find someone more cooperative."

"Someone better informed, too," Captain Grayder offered. "At best we won't get much out of one surly hayseed. I doubt whether he knows one quarter of what we require to learn."

"All right." The Ambassador dropped the idea of doing his own chores. "Organize a patrol and let's have some results."

"A patrol," said Colonel Shelton to Major Hame. "Nominate one immediately."

"Call out a patrol," Hame ordered Lieutenant Deacon. "At once."

"Parade a patrol forthwith, Sergeant Major," said Deacon.

Bidworthy lumbered up the gangway, stuck his head into the airlock and shouted, "Sergeant Gleed, out with your squad and make it snappy!" He gave a suspicious sniff and went farther into the lock. His voice gained several more decibels. "Who's been smoking? By heavens, if I catch the man--"

Across the fields something quietly went chuff-chuff while fat wheels crawled along.

The patrol formed by the right in two ranks of eight men each, turned at a barked command and marched off in the general direction of the ship's nose. They moved with perfect rhythm if no great beauty of motion. Their boots thumped in unison, their accoutrements clattered with martial noises and the orange-colored sun made sparkles on their metal.

Sergeant Gleed did not have to take his men far. They were one hundred yards behind the ship's great snout when he noticed a man ambling across the field to his right. Treating the ship with utter indifference, this character was making toward the farmer still toiling far over to the left.

"Patrol, right wheel!" yelled Gleed, swift to take advantage of the situation. The patrol right-wheeled, marched straight past the wayfarer who couldn't be bothered even to wave a handkerchief at them. Now Gleed ordered an about-turn and followed it with a take-him gesture.

Speeding up its pace, the patrol opened its ranks and became a double file of men tramping on either side of the long pedestrian. Ignoring his suddenly acquired escort the latter continued to plod straight ahead like one long convinced that all is illusion.

"Left wheel!" roared Gleed, trying to bend the whole caboodle towards the waiting Ambassador.

Swiftly obedient, the double file headed leftward, one, two, three, hup! It was neat, precise execution beautiful to watch. Only one thing spoiled it: the man in the middle stubbornly maintained his self-chosen orbit and ambled casually between numbers four and five of the right-hand file.

That upset Gleed, especially since the patrol continued to thump steadily ambassadorwards for lack of a further order. His Excellency was being treated to the unmilitary spectacle of an escort dumbly boot-beating one way while its prisoner airily mooched another way. In due course Colonel Shelton would have plenty to say about it and anything he forgot Bidworthy would remember.

"Patrol!" hoarsed Gleed, pointing an outraged finger at the escapee and momentarily dismissing all regulation commands from his mind, "Get that mug!"

Breaking ranks, they moved at the double and surrounded the wanderer too closely to permit further progress. Perforce he stopped.

Gleed came up and said somewhat breathlessly, "Look, the Earth Ambassador wants to speak to you-that's all."

The other gazed at him with mild blue eyes. He was a funny-looking sample, long overdue for a shave. He had a fringe of ginger whiskers sticking out all around his face and bore faint resemblance to a sunflower.

"I should care," he said.

"Are you going to talk with His Excellency?" Gleed persisted.

"Naw." The other nodded toward the fanner. "Going to talk to Zeke."

"The Ambassador first," retorted Gleed, wearing his tough expression. "He's a big

noise."

"I don't doubt that," remarked the sunflower, showing what sort of a noise he had in mind.

"Smartie Artie, eh?" grated Gleed, pushing his face close and making it

unpleasant. He signed to his men. "All right, hustle him along. We'll show him!"

Smartie Artie chose this moment to sit down. He did it sort of solidly, giving himself the aspect of a squatting statue solidly anchored for the remainder of

eternity. But Gleed had handled sitters before, the only difference being that this one was cold sober.

"Pick him up," commanded Gleed, "and carry him."

So they picked him up and carried him, feet first, whiskers last. He hung limp and

unresisting in their hands, a dead weight made as difficult as possible to bear. In this inauspicious manner he arrived in the presence of the Ambassador where the escort plonked him on his feet.

Promptly he set out for Zeke.

"Hold him, dam you!" howled Gleed.

The patrol grabbed and clung tight. The Ambassador eyed the whiskers with well-

bred concealment of distaste, coughed delicately and spoke.

"I am truly sorry that you had to come to me in this fashion."

"In that case," suggested the prisoner, "you could have saved yourself some mental anguish by not permitting it to happen."

"There was no other choice. We've got to make contact somehow."

"I don't see it," said Ginger Whiskers. "What's so special about this date?"

"The date?" The Ambassador frowned in puzzlement "What has the date got to do

with it?"

"That's exactly what I've asking."

"The point eludes me." The Ambassador turned to the others. "Do you understand

what he's aiming at?"

Shelton said, "I can hazard a guess, Your Excellency. I think he is hinting that

since we've left them without contact for four hundred years there is no particular urgency about making it today." He looked to the sunflower for confirmation.

That worthy rallied to his support by remarking, "You're doing pretty well for a

halfwit."

Regardless of Shelter's own reaction, this was too much for Bidworthy purpling

nearby. His chest came up and his eyes caught fire. His voice was an authoritative rasp.

"Be more respectful while addressing high-ranking officers!"

The prisoner's mild blue eyes turned upon him in childish amazement, examined

him slowly from feet to head and all the way down again. The eyes drifted back inquiringly to the Ambassador.

"Who is this preposterous person?"'

Dismissing the question with an impatient wave of his hand, the Ambassador said, "See here, it is not our purpose to bother you from sheer perversity, as you seem

to think. Neither do we wish to detain you any longer than is; necessary. All we--"

Pulling at his face-fringe as if to accentuate its offensive-ness, the other

interjected, "It being you, of course, who determines the length of the necessity?"

"On the contrary, you may decide that for yourself," gave back the Ambassador, displaying admirable self-control. "All you need do is tell us--"

"Then I've decided it right now," the prisoner chipped in. He tried to heave

himself free of his escort. "Let me go talk to Zeke."

"All you need do," the Ambassador persisted, "is tell us where we can find a local

official who can put us into touch with your central government." His gaze was stern, commanding, as he added, "For instance, where is the nearest police post?"

"Myob!" said Ginger Whiskers.