A Gun for Dinosaur and Other Imaginative Tales

"I," squeaked the Chavantian, "am fascinated by the works of your Shakespeare. Such insight! Such feeling! I taught Ter-ran literature, you know, before I entered the diplomatic service."

"So?" said Reid. "I used to teach, too."

Reid had become a high-school mathematics teacher under the mistaken belief that teaching was an occupation for timid, ineffectual people who feared to face the world. He soon learned that it called for brawn and brutality far beyond anything demanded by the business world. "Have you been well treated so far?"

"Oh, we are sometimes made aware of our unfortunate resemblance to an order of Terran life towards whom most of you do not feel very friendly." (Reid knew the Chavantian meant snakes.) "But we make allowances."

"How about the other guests?" Reid craned his neck to see who was present. The Hobarts and their Robertsonians had not arrived.

"All fine. The Steinians are of course not here, as this would be a revolting spectacle to them. 'Just a thing of custom: 'tis no other; only it spoils the pleasure of the time.' "

The Reids and their guests finished eating and went up to the auditorium, which was already half full. The young of several species had rubber balloons, each balloon straining gently upward on its string. They made so thick a cloud that those in the rear found their view of the stage obscured. ,

The program opened with a concert by the high-school band. Then the local Boy Scout troop presented colors. The Reverend McClintock officially welcomed the guests and introduced them, one by one. As they were introduced, those who could, stood up and were applauded.

Then followed songs by a local choral society; dances by a square-dancing club; more songs; American Indian dances by a cub scout pack; awards of prizes to Associated Planets essay-contest winners ...

The trouble with amateur shows of this sort is not that the acts are bad. Sometimes they are quite good. The real difficulty is that each performer wants to give his all. This means he wants to put on all the pieces in his repertory. As a result, each act is twice as long as it should be. And, because the contributors are unpaid volunteers, the manager can't insist on drastic cuts. If he does, they get hurt and pull out altogether.

The show was still grinding on at ten-thirty. Balloons, escaped from their owners, swayed gently against the ceiling. The young Forellian snored like a distant thunderstorm at the back of the hall. The young of several other species, including Homo sapiens, got out of hand and had to be taken away. The Osmanians fidgeted on seats never designed for their kind and twiddled their tentacles.

Milan Reid ostentatiously looked at his watch and whispered to Sterga: "I have to take my wife to the train. Goodnight. Good-night, Thvi."

He shook their tentacles, led Louise out, and drove off. He did not, however, drive to the railroad station or the airport. He did not think that the situation called for Louise's actually going to Washington. Instead, he left her at the apartment of one of her girl-friends in Merion. Then he went home.

First he went up to the Zieglers' front door. He put out his thumb to ring, to make sure his plans had gone through. Then he drew back. From within came screams of laughter: Connie's shrill peals, Charlie's belly-roars, and the Osmanians' hideous cackle.

His guests had obviously made contact with their new hosts. There was no need for him to go in. If he did, Charlie would insist on his joining the party, and he loathed raucous parties.

Reid went to his own house and got ready for bed. Though not much of a late-evening drinker, he mixed himself a strong rye-and-soda, turned on the radio to a good-music station, lit his pipe, and relaxed. From next door, outbursts of crazy laughter rose up from time to time, with odd thumping sounds and once the crash of breaking glass. Reid smiled quietly.

The telephone rang. Reid frowned and lifted the handset.

"New Haven calling," said the operator. Then came the nasal tones of Rajendra Jaipaclass="underline" "Hello, Milan? This is R. J. I didn't know if you would be home yet from the celebration. How are your guests?"

"I got rid of them," said Reid.

"You what?"

"Got rid of them. Gave them away. I couldn't stand them."

"Where are they now?" Jaipal's voice rose tautly.

"Next door, at the Zieglers'. They seem —"

"Oh, you did not!"

"Damn right I did. They seem to be having a high old time."

"Ai, Ram Ram! I thought I could trust you! You have upset interplanetary relations for centuries! My God, why did you do that? And why the Zieglers, of all people?"

"Because the Zieglers were handy, and because these squids are a pair of spoiled brats; impulsive, irresponsible children, with no manners, no morals, no sense, no nothing. If —"

"That does not matter. You have your dutee to humanity."