The three marched into the cocktail lounge, which was swarming with savants, who made respectful way for the Dzlieri, as though impressed by his size if not by his intellect. Schmidt ordered four double martinis, one each for Lawrence and himself and two for Magramen, whose capacity was in proportion to his bulk.
The talk and smoke were thick, and the three stood quietly drinking and batting back the greetings tossed at them while the press of great minds eddied around them.
Lawrence jerked a discreet thumb towards the densest knot at the end of the bar, from the midst of which boomed the ringing voice of Sir Erik Koskelainen.
Schmidt exchanged glances with the Vishnuvan.
Magramen said: "Now?"
"No. Wait till after dinner."
"They're going to dance, you know," said Lawrence.
Schmidt nodded. "Finish up, eyerybody. They're beginning to go in."
Under Schmidt's leadership they took places fairly well down towards the end of one leg of the horseshoe into which the tables had been arranged. One of the Institute's other two extraterrestrials, the reptilian fellow with the unpronounceable name, from Osiris, took a place next to them. The e.t.'s always had a tendency to huddle together from lonesomeness at these functions. The other one, the tailed man from Koloft on Krishna, sat across the way.
Magramen pulled out two chairs to make room to curl his equine bulk against the table. Koskelainen, resplendent in the red-and-blue full-dress of a major in the World Federation armed force, sat at the head of the horseshoe, at the right of the director. (He must have a reserve commission, thought Lawrence; was this the proper occasion to wear it? He thought not.)
Lawrence reflected that on the whole the greatest minds in the Galaxy, as the Institute was intended to comprise, were not much to look at. They ran to baldness, thick glasses, and a doddery manner which made Koskelainen stand out amongst them like a sunflower in a coal-scuttle. As for their women, with a few exceptions, the less said the better. He gulped when he saw that Licia sat on the other side of Koskelainen and was looking at him with every appearance of devotion. Beyond her sat Papa Ferreira and his Senhora.
As Institute dinners went, it wasn't so bad, especially when you considered that most of the members were notoriously indifferent to fine food, and therefore the management had no motive for laying itself out to provide a feast for gourmets. Lawrence hardly tasted his, however, what with the distractions of looking towards Licia and wondering what Schmidt was going to do.
When it was over, the director made a little speech introducing "the man who needs no introduction, our own Dr. Joao Ferreira, who will tell you about certain matters."
And Ferreira did: "—the Finance Committee has been so impressed by the proposal put forward by Sir Erik Koskelainen that we have accepted it in principle, leaving only details to be worked out. I now introduce our guest of the evening, Sir Erik Koskelainen!"
Lawrence exchanged glances with Schmidt, meaning: "So it's all decided already!" As he did so he observed that among his colleagues others likewise seemed astonished, even while they applauded politely. Lawrence thought: Like us, they're wondering if their own appropriations will be cut into. Of course, if this gloop hires a lot of the Institute personnel to run his survey, it won't make so much difference.
Koskelainen himself was speaking, forcefully, eloquently, with flashes of humour and sly self-deprecation. And he made it plain at the start that his project would make the maximum use of scholars and scientists already affiliated with the Institute. You couldn't help warming to the bird, thought Lawrence. He even had the grace to end his speech before anybody became bored.
Schmidt said: "Come on, Greg, follow him into the ballroom. Maybe we'd better let him have one dance, so there won't be such a crowd around him."
"Yeah, but he'll dance with my girl!"
"Well, whom d'you expect him to dance with? Ah—Magramen? Come along, old horse! You've eaten enough salads for one evening."
"Ain't that many salads," growled the Dzlieri, scooping up another fistful.
They straggled into the ballroom. Sure enough, Koskelainen was spinning away down the floor with Licia Ferreira, dodging through the Institute couples like a speedboat cutting through a lot of barge tows. The tailed man was trying awkwardly to dance with the director's wife, and Louis Prevost, dancing with Professor Saito's wife, was looking over her shoulder apprehensively at Magramen, as if wondering how long the Dzlieri would continue to behave himself.
Lawrence saw Schmidt timing the revolutions of the dancers about the floor. As the number ended, the xenologist said: "Come on!" and pushed towards Koskelainen, conspicuous in his finery. Schmidt said to Lawrence: "Introduce us."
"Hello, Sir Erik," said Lawrence. "I'd like you to meet a couple of friends of mine: Dr. Schmidt and Mr. Magramen.
Schmidt, shaking hands, said: "I don't think you remember me, do you?"
Koskelainen, all smiles, said: "Not off-hand, unless I ran into you at some meeting. I—" His voice trailed off as Schmidt removed his glasses.
Schmidt said: "I don't think you ever met Magramen, though you knew a lot of the Dzlieri on Vishnu, and he's known about you for a long time. Haven't you, Magramen?"
"Is sure thing," said Magramen, extending a hairy-backed hand. "Chrdul karu uqe dres, tsameskhmilma usuni otsnet djor?"
"I beg your pardon?" beamed Koskelainen. "I'm afraid you've got me on that dialect, old man."
"Funny how soon you've forgotten it, isn't it?" said Schmidt. "Listen again."
Magramen repeated his sentence. An interested circle of spectators had formed. Koskelainen frowned. "What sort of gag is this?"
"No gag at all. A few years ago you were fluent in Magramen's dialect, as you call it."
"Oh, well, a man can forget!"
"That is, Koskelainen was fluent in it when he was on Vishnu. Suppose you tell us about your work on that stay? Especially since Magramen was there at the time, when the real Koskelainen visited the planet, so he can—uh—corroborate——"
"Say, are you calling me a fake?"
"Precisely."
"Why you—you Venerian mud-worm! I thought the members of the Institute were gentlemen as well as scholars. It seems I was mistaken. Good-night, everybody." Koskelainen shouldered through the circle of spectators.
Ferreira appeared with a stricken expression. "My heavens, Reggie, what have you done? Sir Erik, wait, wait! There must be some mistake!"
"Stop that guy," said Schmidt. "He's no more Erik Koskelainen than I'm Napoleon."
Lawrence pushed after the departing guest of honour. Magramen, clenching and unclenching fists with a gleeful expression, clattered behind him. By the time they reached the front door, pursued and pursuers were both running.
Magramen said in a disappointed tone: "If he get outside, I no can catch. Can't see in dark."
"I'll fix that," said Lawrence. "Hold still a sec." The young ecologist vaulted onto the Dzlieri's back. "Now, giddap, and I'll guide you. Hey, you!" This was to a startled bellboy. "Hold that front door open for us, will you?" He ducked through the door, thinking how lucky it was not of the revolving kind.
"Hang it!" said Lawrence. "The. guy's got away—no, there he is! On your right!" He had glimpsed the gaudy uniform trying to slip out of sight behind some of the ornamental shrubbery ranged along the front of the Princeton.
As they neared the shrub, Koskelainen broke into a run and Magramen into a gallop. The savants were streaming out of the hotel now, and they gave chase, too. However, their age soon left them far in the rear, though the tailed man from Koloft did not do too badly.
Koskelainen ran like the wind, but the Dzlieri like the hurricane.
As Magramen overtook him, Koskelainen dodged. Lawrence, gripping the slack of Magramen's coat to steady himself with left hand, leaned far to the right and caught Koskelainen's hair.