Gozashtandou proved an easy language for a man who already spoke a dozen. Mornings Hasselborg spent posting solemnly around the bridle path on the back of an aya, while a member of the Viagens staff trotted with him and told him over and over to keep his elbows in, heels down, et cetera. These beasts had an unpleasantly jarring trot, especially since the saddle was right over the middle pair of legs. When he learned that his particular aya had also been trained to draw a carriage, he eagerly bought a light four-wheeled vehicle with a single seat for two. Two or three hundred years before on Earth, he recalled, men had driven a variety of these contraptions and called them by a multitude of special names: buggy, brougham, gig, surrey—something only an antiquarian would know about. At least, one aya and a carriage should in the long run be as cheap and convenient as, and more comfortable than, an aya to ride and a second to carry his gear.
Afternoons he put in an hour or two with another staffer who flourished a dummy sword and yelled: "No, no, always you wave the blade too wide!"
"That's how they do it in the movies."
"Do they try to kill people in the movies? No, they try to give the audience a thrill, which is different—"
With Chuen he practiced Krishnan conversation and table manners. The main tools were a pair of little spears to be held like chopsticks. Chuen, of course, had a great advantage here. Gois, watching Hasselborg's fumbles, turned beet-red containing his mirth.
"Go ahead and laugh," said Hasselborg. "I should think the Council would at least let us show 'em knives and forks."
Gois shrugged. "The Council has been very strict since the tobacco habit invaded the planet, amigo meu. Some consider the Council unreasonable for saying that by letting these people have knives and forks we'd be inviting an interplanetary war, but—"
"Are the Krishnans as dangerous as that?"
"Not so much dangerous as backward. The Council reasons that it will be time enough letting them have an industrial revolution when they have more civilized ideas about politics and the like. I don't think they know what they want; the policy changes from year to year. And some say the stupid Council will always find reasons to stop progress on Krishna. Progress— Ah, my friends, I must get back to Earth before I'm too old to see its wonders."
At this outburst Hasselborg exchanged a quick glance with Chuen, who said: "What's your opinion of the regulation, Senhor Julio?"
"Me?" said Gois in English. "I am but a poor, infirm, weak, and despised young man. I have no opinions." And he changed the subject in a marked manner.
Hasselborg stayed on a week after Chuen left, working on his orientation. Since the authorities would not let him take along the photographs of Jul-nar and Fallon, he practiced copying them with pencil and brush until he achieved recognizable likeness. He balked at Gois's suggestion that he load himself down with a complete suit of armor but finally compromised on a shirt of fine chain mail. He also bought a sword, a dagger with a fancy guard, a big leather wallet like an Earth woman's handbag with a shoulder-strap and many compartments, and a native dictionary of Gozashtandou-Portuguese and Portuguese-Gozashtandou, like all Krishnan books printed on a long strip of paper folded zigzag between a pair of wooden covers.
Then one morning before sunrise, while two of Krishna's three moons still bathed the landscape, he set out from the north gate. He felt a little foolish in fancy hat and monkey jacket but philosophically told himself he had lived through worse things. Gois had been adamant about letting him take his rubbers. Hasselborg, much as he dreaded wet feet, had to admit that rubbers over the soft-leather high Krishnan boots would have looked a little bizarre.
That young man was there to see him off. Hasselborg said: "Have you got that letter of introduction?" He half expected a negative, since Gois had been putting off writing the thing on one excuse or another.
"Sim, here… here it is."
Hasselborg frowned. "What's the matter? Sit up all night writing it?" For Gois had a nervous, distracted look.
"Not quite. I had to choose the right wording. Be sure not to break the seals, or the dasht will get suspicious. And whatever happens, remember that Julio Gois esteems you."
A funny sort of farewell, thought Hasselborg; but he simply said: "Ate a vista!" and tickled his aya's rump with his whip until it went into a brisk trot on the road to Rosid.
III.
Victor Hasselborg rode for several Earth hours alone, mumbling sentences of Gozashtandou to himself. A couple of Earth hours after sunrise, the sun finally broke through the tumbled clouds. Hasselborg pulled up alongside an enormous two-wheeled cart drawn by a bishtar, an elephantine draft-animal with a pair of short trunks, and asked the driver how far it was to Avord.
The driver leaned over, then jerked a thumb towards the rear of the cart. "Twenty-five hoda, master."
Hasselborg knew it was over thirty, but these fellows always deducted a little to make the hearer feel good. The fellow looked like a thinner version of Chuen in his Krishnan disguise, with the same slant-eyed, flattened face, more like that of a Mongoloid like Chuen than a Caucasoid like Hasselborg. Maybe, he thought, that was why Chuen had been sent on his mysterious errand. Fortunately the bishtar driver seemed to find nothing odd about Hasselborg. He merely asked whether it was likely to rain.
Hasselborg said: "If the gods so decide. Thanks for the information." He waved and trotted off, pleased with having passed his first inspection.
He passed other travelers from time to time— riding, driving, or on foot. This was evidently a major highway. Gois had told him that the dasht had it patrolled to keep the danger of robbers and wild beasts to a minimum. Even so, towards the end of the day, a deep animal roar came over the plain, making his aya skitter.
He put on speed and soon sighted the cultivated strips that meant he was nearing Avord. The sun had disappeared into the towering clouds for good, and Hasselborg had felt a sprinkle of rain. Now the clouds were getting black and the wind was bothersome. Perhaps he should put up the collapsible top. He stopped the vehicle and struggled with the contraption for a while; it was evidently one of those one-man tops that could easily be erected by one man, four boys, and a team of horses. Finally the thing yielded, and Hasselborg whipped his animal to a gallop as he drew close to the village.
The houses of Avord were of plaster or concrete, with outside windows few, small, and high. Hasselborg found the inn where Gois had said it would be, and identified it by the animal skull over the door. He hitched his beast and went inside, where he found a big room with benches and a stout, wrinkled fellow with ragged antennae, whom Hasselborg took to be mine host. He rattled off:
"May the stars favor you; I am Kavir bad-Ma'lum. I wish a meal, a bed, and care for my aya."
"That will be five karda, sir," said the innkeeper.
"Four," said Hasselborg.
"Four and a half."
"Four and a quarter."
"Done. Hamse, see that the gentleman's baggage is stowed and his animal stabled and fed. Now, Master Kavir, will you sit with two of my regular customers? On the left is Master Farra, who owns one of the outlying farms. The other is Master Qam, on his way from Rosid to Novorecife. What would you? We have roast unha, ash stew, or I can boil you up a fine young ambar. Eh?"
"I'll take the last," said Hasselborg, not knowing one from the other and wishing he could inspect the kitchen to see if it measured up to his standards of sanitation. "And something to drink."