The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens Read Online Free PDF

Sha’akhfa, to give him his proper name) looked like a dinosaur seven feet tall: one of the little ones that ran around on their hind legs with a tail sticking out behind to balance. The creature’s scaly hide was decorated with an elaborate painted pattern in many colors.
    “Excuse me, pleass,” said this being in a barely intelligible accent, “put what iss the correct moon time?”
    Chapman told the Osirian (a male from his wattle) who set his wrist-watch and asked: “Are you too koink py the Camões?”
    “Yes,” said Chapman.
    “So am I. Let uss introtuce ourselfs. I am Businessman-second-rank Fiasakhe.”
    Chapman introduced himself and the model and asked: “I wonder you don’t wait for an Osirian ship, Mr. Fiasakhe?”
    “I would, sir, but an urchent message from home . . . I came in with that cultural mission, you know, that iss to prepare the way for the export of the designs of Osirian arts and crafts . . .”
    Celia said: “I should think you’d find one of our ships frightfully uncomfortable.”
    “I do! Always I am bumping my head on torframes or catching my tail in tors! Put then . . .” The creature managed a shrug with his negligible shoulders.

    ###

    The steward showed Chapman his cabin and said: “Where shall we put this trunk you have a passenger ticket for, Senhor?”
    “Middle bunk,” said Chapman, picking up the printed passenger list from the tiny dresser. He read:

    Barros, M.C, Rio de Janeiro.
    Bergerat, J.-J.M., Paris.
    Chapman, C.H., Hollywood.
    Chisholm, W.J., Minneapolis.
    Fiasakhe, 3*, Cefef Aqh, Osiris.
    Kamimura, A., Kobe.
    Kichik*, Dzidzigä, Thoth.
    Mpande, S., Molopololi, Bechuanaland.
    Popovich, I.I., Sofia.
    Savinkov, A.P., Paris.
    Sz, T.-E., Tientsin.
    Varga, M., Szolnok, Hungary.
    Zorn, C.E., Hollywood.

    A footnote told him that the names with asterisks were those of extra-terrestrials . . .
    “Cato!” said Celia’s voice outside.
    “Come in, Cee.”
    The tall dark girl did so. “I’m in with Senhora Barros and Anya Savinkov. Anya is a model for Tomaselli’s of Paris!”
    “Ah,” said Chapman. “Say who her boss was?”
    “No, I’ve only just met her. She’s the redhead.”
    “Hm. Our rival must be this Bergerat. I seem to remember that guy: the agent for Tomaselli’s at the New York fair three years ago. A tall dark type, the kind you slobber over—”
    “I do not! The nerve of you—”
    “Okay, consider it unsaid. A slick operator, as I remember; pulled some fast ones on the New York department stores.”
    She looked at the list. “Fiasakhe we know. This Kichik must be an e.t. from Thoth. What are they like?”
    “Monkey-rats, they sometimes call them; about a meter high, with seven fingers on each hand.”
    “How perfectly horrid!”
    “They’re harmless.”
    The door opened again and the steward ushered in a black man who turned out to be S. Mpande. After introductions Chapman said: “How about giving me to top bunk, Mr. Mpande? I’m better fitted for climbing into it.”
    Mpande patted his paunch and chuckled. “Right-o, old chap.”
    “See you later, Cee,” said Chapman.
    After the first few high-g hours following takeoff, Chapman got up from his bunk and went out to explore. On the opposite side of the narrow curving corridor, a little way around the circumference of the nose of the ship, was a door behind which, according to the legend in the Brazilo-Portuguese of the spaceways, lay the passengers’ heavy baggage. The door was closed by a simple cylinder lock—locked.
    Following the corridor back in the other direction, Chapman came to the tiny saloon with its two little tables. Around one a game of sunburst was already under way among three human passengers and the Thothian, whose many fingers flipped the cards with ominous dexterity.
    A tall dark young man unfolded himself and came over to extend a hand ornamented with a large and gaudy ring: “ ’Ello, Meester Shapman! Remembair me from the New York Fair?”
    “Hello,