Douks?"

"Sure do. By at least twenty to one. They're dying out."

"Which means that Naturists hold most of the developed part of the planet?"

"Correct."

"So that to all intents and purposes your government is the government of this

world?"

"Yaz."

"Good! I want to have an interview with members of the government."

"He doesn't want much," observed Pincuff, speaking to nobody in particular.

"Sure doesn't," confirmed Boogie. "Go fetch me your government-just like that. Thinks they're sitting around waiting for us to summon them and they'll come on the run."

"Flatterer," said Pincuff to the Ambassador.

"All I ask, "the Ambassador persisted, "is that you go to that town and report our presence. Officialdom can be trusted to do something about it."

"The town is well aware of your presence," Pincuff assured. "It's within plain view and they can't have failed to notice the landing of a ship this size."

"We've got eyes," contributed Boogie. "Good healthy ones." He pointed to the senior civil servant who was staring at him fascinatedly through horn-rimmed spectacles. "We're not half-blind like that dumb-looking wreck."

"Bet you fifty percent of them wear glasses," said Pincuff. "And half of those who don't are in need of them."

"Same with false teeth," supported Boogie. He gaped wide open, revealing a double row of pure white fangs, and shoved this spectacle towards the Ambassador's face. "All my own. How many have you got?"

"That is nothing to do with you," said the Ambassador.

"Won't talk," Boogie told the general assembly. "Not a real tooth in his head."

"But arch supports in his boots," guessed Pincuff.

"I do not use arch supports," the Ambassador denied.

"Then let's see you do this." Boogie bounced up and down like a demented kangaroo. "Go ahead and try it. Keep time with me. One-sy, two-sy, I'll beat yousy. Two-sy, three-sy, you beat me-sy."

"Nonsense!" said the Ambassador flatly.

"Physical fitness is nonsense," Boogie informed Pincuff.

"Can you imagine anything more typically Terran?"

"Yaz," said Pincuff. "Dirty-mindedness."

The Ambassador turned to Grayder, Shelton and the others. "No useful purpose can be served by prolonging this stupid conversation. Let us go into the ship and wait until someone with more brains arrives."

With that he marched up the gangway. The rest followed, carefully maintaining the proper order of precedence. Bid-worthy went last, pausing only to sear the Hygeians with his glare.

"Defective liver and superfluous bile," diagnosed Pincuff.

"Fatty buttocks," added Boogie. "Hopelessly out of condition. Needs a twenty-mile race and an hour in the steam-bath."

"You two can go to hell," declared Bidworthy and made the gangway tremble with the thunder of his ascent.

"Foul-mouthed as well," remarked Pincuff as if confirming a foregone conclusion. "Let's get back to civilization."

Ignoring the hundreds of faces still gaping from the ports, they turned and headed toward the town, perforce showing the audience their hinder parts. To the onlookers this rear-end view held vague suggestion of a declaration of independence.

First Mate Morgan peered into the cubby-hole, frowned at what he saw. "What, are you at it again? Can't you think of any better way in which to spend your spare time?"

"Yes-riding around," answered Tenth Engineer Harrison. "I can't do that in the ship. I've got to be outside with a firm road under my wheels and a pleasant landscape before me. You don't mind me tending to my bike, do you?"

"I couldn't care less," said Morgan. "But I still think it a crazy way to use one's off-duty." Producing a notebook, he poised a pencil over it. "Which leave roster d'you want to be on, first, second or third?"

"So we're getting leave, are we?"

"Not immediately. Our entitlement starts at six o'clock Thursday evening. The Captain knows the regulations and he'll expect me to produce the rosters for his approval. Which one d'you want to be on?"

"There are advantages and disadvantages," mused Harrison, rubbing his nose with a polishing-cloth. "The first bunch go out blind whereas the last have the benefit of information brought back by the earlier ones. On the other hand, if the first lot arouse the dislike of the natives the last lot will have to bear the brunt of it. A couple of rowdy drunks can earn later comers a harvest of black eyes."

"Make up your mind," urged Morgan impatiently. "I can't stand here all day while you examine the respective merits of this, that and the other. Which d'you want first, second or third?"

"I'll take third. I'd rather go out primed than ignorant."

"Third," repeated Morgan, writing it down. "Where are Ninth Engineer Hope and Eighth Engineer Carslake?"

"Went running to their cabins a couple of minutes ago. Said they wanted to load their cine-cameras. They seemed to be excited about something."

"Did they?" Morgan eyed him briefly. "Where have you been this last hour?"

"Right here, cleaning my bike. Why? Anything wrong with that?"

"No, nothing wrong." Morgan went in search of Hope and Carslake, leaving the

other staring after him.

A little later Harrison was spinning his rear wheel and listening to the smooth, oily ticking of its ball-race when Sergeant Gleed looked in.

"Morgan been after you yet?"

"Yes."

"What did you pick?"

"Third roster."

"A mistake," pronounced Gleed. "Leave won't last that long. You should have

chosen to go first. A bird in the hand is worth two on the bust."

"In the bush," corrected Harrison.

"You know what I mean. Rush to open when opportunity knocks and pause not

for cogitation. The first bunch will get away with murder. The second might. The third won't."

"Why not?"

"There'll be trouble aplenty with at least some of the first crowd. You know what sailors are."

"What d'you mean?"

"The local warriors are going to object to the way some of our fellows use their eyes. One thing will lead to another as sure as Bidworthy barks in his sleep. It'll end up in a real free-for-all if not a massacre. Grayder will then refuse to approve the next roster."

"Don't know what you're so morbid about," observed Harrison, starting to give his saddle its sixth successive polish. "There's no reason why we should find more trouble here than in any other place."

"How long have you been fooling around with this contraption?"

"I don't know. I don't time myself. I'm not on duty so what does it matter?"

"You've not had a look at the natives?"

"No," said Harrison. "They're our own kind, exactly the same as ourselves. I've

seen Terrans aplenty."

"Not stark," said Gleed.

"What d'you mean, stark?"

"These Hygeians are stark raw."

"I don't understand."

"How about treating yourself to a lucid moment?" Gleed suggested, and went on,

"They're naked. Not a stitch."

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes!" insisted Gleed.

"Women as well?"

"We've seen none as yet but you can bet on it."

"I don't believe it."

"You will," promised Gleed.

Towards eventide a deputation arrived. It consisted of half a dozen elderly, sunburnt nudists led by one who looked ninety years older than God. This character sported a thirty-inch beard that concealed his chest and much of his abdomen and gave him the appearance of being improperly dressed. He was carrying a gold-painted rod bearing on its top a wooden disc carved with what resembled a coat of arms.

Reaching the foot of the gangway, the bearded one gazed up at the airlock doorway in which Sergeant Gleed was lounging. A brief look of distaste passed across his aged features before he lifted his rod ceremoniously and spoke.

"Health be yours."

"It is," said Gleed, not feeling especially decrepit.

The other seemed to doubt this assurance but was not inclined to dispute it. "I am Radaschwon Bouchaine, the mayor of Sunnyside." He gestured toward the town. Then he indicated his fellows who were studying Gleed's clothing with the air of maiden ladies inspecting a long-dead rat. "And these are some of my councillors."

"How nice," acknowledged Gleed, rewarding them with a craggy smile.

"We would like to meet your leader," finished Mayor Bouchaine.

"Wait there and I'll see what he says." Gleed took the intercom phone from the wall, listened to its steady buzz-buzz at the other end, decided that so far as he was concerned whoever answered would be the leader. As it happened it was Grayder. To him, Gleed said, "There's a bunch of nakes at the gangway, sir, and they want to have a word with you. One of them says he's the local mayor. He's got a totem-pole to prove it."

"Bring them to the chartroom, Sergeant," ordered Grayder.

Gleed returned to the top of the gangway. "You can come aboard."

That started an argument among the seven during which the words dirt, germs and vermin were freely used. Gleed listened with growing ire, not liking their ready acceptance of the notion that everyone on the ship was crammed to the ears with bacteria.