Lankar of Callisto

At this time I was also introduced to Dr. Abziz, the famous geographer from the great Academy of Soraba, and to Zantor, formerly one of the Sky Pirates of Zanadar, now a loyal and trusted friend of Jandar and Darloona, and a captain in the new Sky Navy.

I could have guessed either of their identities at a glance, for Dr. Abziz was exactly as Jandar has described him―fat, fussy, self-important and peevish, with a round, plump face, scarlet as tomato puree and bald as an egg, save, of course, for his waxed and ridiculous little billy-goat’s beard, a heritage of his mixed Soraban and Ganatolian ancestry. He greeted me with cool reserve, which was only to be expected from a savant so self-important.

Zantor was a mighty man of glum, solemn mien and few words. His handshake―which he must have learned from Jandar, for it is not a Thanatorian custom at all―was gentle but firm, and I have no doubt he could have crushed my hand if he had wished to. His eyes were friendly, for all his solemnity, and his tone of voice warm and welcoming.

And thus we observed the social amenities, while passing the wine around and getting to know each other a little. The. slight champagnelike effervescence of the honey wine tickled Taran’s nose and before long one of Zastro’s servants led the boy off to watch the changing of the palace guard, as the conversation would doubtless prove, a bore to him.

Bozo was treated with enormous respect; in fact, no one dared come near him, much less touch the great brute, who insisted on crouching by my chair, pressed up against me for whatever comfort my presence afforded him among all these strangers. But he behaved himself like a gentleman, I am glad to say:

Barin sat stiffly, seeming rather awkward and self conscious. I suppose the Legionnaire was unused to mingling with the famous and the celebrated of the court. His forehead glistened with perspiration and he sipped only a little of his wine, replying in monosyllables to the questions which were addressed to him. I could tell that he wished for nothing more than to be permitted to return to the rough, comfortable life of his camp, and would be glad to get out of here. Well, Zastro did not keep him long, as the gentlemanly old philosopher could read his nervousness as well as I could and philosopher the poor fellow was extremely uncomfortable.

“Now, Lord Lankar,” Zarstro began, once we had all relaxed, “perhaps you will be good enough to tell us how you came here to Thanator and what your arrival on our world portends―”

“Aye! And do inquire about that great beastie, and how in the name of the Red Moon the noble lord comes by such a fearsome creature, as poor Glypto had always heared were wild and savage!”

The man who had chirped out this remark had slunk furtively into the room at our heels, much to Zastro’s discomfiture, although the old philosopher was far too polite to evince any disapproval. He was a stooped, spindlyshanked little fellow, spry and nimble, wrapped in a rusty old black cloak, tattered and disreputable, which lent him a villainous appearance. This unwholesome aspect was augmented when you looked into his astonishingly homely, face, with its hollow, famished cheeks, bestubbled and ill-shaven, his bright, inquisitive eye and his great ungainly beak of a nose. The sort of a face that made you feel nervously to make sure you still had your wallet.

In answer to Zastro’s question I said haltingly that my presence on this world was entirely due to accident―the same identical sort of accident which had brought Jandar here himself.

“I understand,” Zastro nodded. “But, now, you speak of Jandar. How is it that you are acquainted with our Prince? True, you hail from the same far world, but always I have been given to understand that on his native planet the Prince was a personage of little or no importance. I am puzzled, therefore, that you know him at all. Are you a relative, or, perchance, a friend?”

“Well, I certainly consider myself his friend, although to be truthful we have never actually met,” I replied. “You see, back on Earth I am a writer of books―”

“Aha!” Glypto yelped, his sharp black eye glinting with satisfaction. “Your words do prove me right, sir! Aye, poor old Glypto guessed as much, from one glance at his lordship’s face! That broad, noble brow, now―those thoughtful, sensitive eyes! `A poet!’ quoth I, will the gentlemen be calling me a liar? `An artist! =”

“If you please, Master Glypto,” admonished Zastro with a patient groan. “If you must interrupt every other word out of our mouths, we shall all of us spend the night here without learning anything. Now if you insist on being present, you may listen and observe all, but kindly keep your comments to yourself. Is that understood?” .

Glypto capered in an obsequious bow, tugging at his forelock―or where a forelock would be, if he had had one, which he didn’t, being mostly bald in front, and whined in his hoarse, beggar’s voice: “Pray pardon old Glypto, sir, for intruding upon the councils of the high and the mighty! ‘Tis only that I be nigh consumed with curiosity, as you will understand, I’m sure!” And with that, the odd little scarecrow of a man, whose clowning caperings concealed a first-rate intelligence, and who was a shrewd and astute diplomat in the service of Soraba (for all that he delighted in playing the rascally guttersnipe), flopped into a chair and lapsed into cowed but attentive silence.