Touchdown, Touchdown, Rah, Rah, Rah!

“I’ll be OK by tonight. Milk-sugar allergy clears up pretty fast.” She sat up and rubbed her temples. “How’s the business?”

“Not bad. Moskva Mnogophermaya sent me another mail fax yesterday. They made a good offer, and I’m going to advise Ghorf to accept.” “Good.”

He nodded. “I’ll pick up a nice piece of change, which ought to tick off Nyquist. Say,” he went on, “who was Proxmire?”

“Huh? Oh.” Elizabeth shook her head again. “I’m not sure. I think he was the scientist who figured out that milk causes a certain type of allergy.”

That sounded reasonable to Ray. “Hell of a thing to be remembered for...” His voice trailed off as Elizabeth rose from the bed and lurched out of the room. Ray looked into the hall, and saw her vanish into the communal bathroom.

Faber was standing in the hallway. “Damned skinny broad,” he muttered, not noticing Ray. “Been hogging the can all day.” Then he saw Ray. “You’re wasting your time with her, Bennett. She doesn’t eat because she doesn’t like sex. That’s psychology.”

Ray looked at him in disdain; he had thought Faber’s experience with knotvine would have given him some empathy. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

“I’m kinda hung over,” Faber said, and belched. “Got my grades yesterday. Passed everything, so I can stop wasting time in class.”

“That’s what you think,” Ray said. “Cutting classes will get you in as much trouble as bombing a test.”

Faber glared at him and said words which approximated “You’re kidding me.”

“That’s how they do things here,” Ray said. “Clean up and get to your class.”

Faber kept glaring. “What are you, my guardian angel?”

“Think of me as a fallen angel,” Ray suggested. When he saw that Faber had missed his meaning he went on, “Either keep working, or learn to like what you’ll find in the kya version of Playboy.”

“Ack!” Faber retreated into his room.

Ray left the dorm and went home. He had lunch, then placed a phone call. “Easthills Combine,” a kya answered over the static-scratched wires.

“This is Ray Bennett. Calling now, I have good news for Ghorf. That being so, may I speak with him?”

“One moment.” After some clickings and quiet background gronkings, a new voice came on the line. “Ghorf speaking.”

“Ray Bennett. Moskva Mnogophermaya just sent me a fax. They’ve made a very good offer. That being so, I’d like to come to your office and discuss the terms.”

“No, no, you needn’t trouble yourself,” Ghorf said. “Working as well as you do, you can handle everything.”

“As you say.” As Ray hung up he wondered what was going on. Earth or Kya, it was strange for a highly-placed executive to leave the details of a big contract in somebody else’s hands. He hoped it was a sign of Ghorf’s trust in him ... but now that he thought of it, he hadn’t been face-to-face with Ghorf since their last encounter in the restaurant, several weeks ago. The executive seemed to be avoiding him. In light of the embassy’s attempt to poison his good name, that thought gave Ray qualms.

The Garrett P. Serviss entered Kya orbit and sent down a passenger shuttle three days before the first game of the bagdrag season. On the evening of the landing Ray, Elizabeth, and Dean Zelk went to Zgorch Aerodrome to greet the delegation from GSN. “This being important to him, I’m surprised Vapor didn’t turn out,” Zelk said as the shuttle landed.

“The HSA is having a barbecue,” Elizabeth said. “The wind is coming from the right direction for the first time this month, and they, uh, decided not to wait.”

“Oh,” Zelk said, shuddering over her memories of the last barbecue. Ray shuddered, but for a different reason. Hot dogs, hamburgers, spare ribs, T-bone steaks—he hadn’t had a meal like that since coming to Kya, and his stomach was never going to forgive him for turning down the Human Students Association’s dinner invitation. On the other hand, he consoled himself, Elizabeth had accompanied him to the airport because she couldn’t eat anything served at the barbecue, and there was a lot to be said for her company.

The lander deployed its ramp, and humans and robots debarked. A few tourists came first, followed by replacement staffers for the UN embassy, and then—“Oh, no,” Ray groaned, while Zelk let out a gronk of horror and disgust. Several men and women emerged from the ship wearing coon-skin coats and toting pennants that said Vrekle U. For all the world they looked like time-warped football fans from the Jazz Age.

Ray hurried up the ramp to the statuesque woman at the front of the group. “You’re from GSN?” he asked.

“That’s right,” she said, flipping open the front of her coat to reveal a GSN logo and ID badge. “Jan Jones, sportscaster. We re here to cover the Big Game.”

Even through his dismay Ray heard the capital letters. “You’ll have to ditch those coats,” he said. “Fast.”