Tea Tray in the Sky — Story, Setting & Ideas

Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studying the ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, because he had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering his preparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.

A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. The face on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: "Our pencils are finest from point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comes from Dschubba."

"Is there any way of turning that thing off?" Michael wanted to know.

The other man smiled. "If there were, my boy, do you think anybody would watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit of free enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?"

"Oh, no!" Michael agreed hastily. "Certainly not."

"And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury."

"How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea?" Michael murmured, abashed.

"Allow me to introduce myself," said his companion. "My name is Pierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card." He handed Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpenter suspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, his address, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a character of the utmost respectability.

"My name's Michael Frey," the young man responded, smiling awkwardly. "I'm afraid I don't have any cards."

"Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now, look here, son," Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, "I know you've just come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be through ignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn't understand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of The Law is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. For instance, your hands...."

Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly good hands, he thought. "Is there something wrong with them?"

Carpenter blushed and looked away. "Didn't you know that on Electra it is forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?"

"Of course I know that," Michael said impatiently. "But what's that got to do with me?"

The salesman was wide-eyed. "But if it is forbidden on Electra, it becomes automatically prohibited here."

"But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand," Michael protested, "with two fingernails on each--all covered with green scales."

Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so while lying down. "Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?"

"Of course not, but--"

"Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?"

"Certainly not, but--"

"Would you like to be called guilty of--" Carpenter paused before the dreaded word--"_intolerance_?"

"No, no, _no_!" Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for him to be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. "I have lots of gloves in my pack," he babbled. "Lots and lots. I'll put some on right away."

With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack down from the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device had been invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows, hoop-shaped.

Michael pushed the button marked _Gloves A_, and a pair of yellow gauntlets slid out.

Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. "Yellow is the color of death on Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passing away! No one _ever_ wears yellow!"

"Sorry," Michael said humbly. The button marked _Gloves B_ yielded a pair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunic and turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.

"The quality's high," sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids, "but the price is meager. You _know_ when you buy Plummy Fruitcake from Vega."

The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. "You staying a while in Portyork?" Michael nodded. "Then you'd better stick close to me for a while until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourself until you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get into trouble."

"Thank you, sir," Michael said gratefully. "It's very kind of you."

He twisted himself around--it was boiling hot inside the jet bus and his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably--and struck his head against the bottom of the shelf above. "Awfully inconvenient arrangement here," he commented. "Wonder why they don't have seats."

"Because this arrangement," Carpenter said stiffly, "is the one that has proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms."

"Oh, I see," Michael murmured. "I didn't get a look at the other passengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?"

"Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?"