Chapter III

CONTACT AT LAST

“What in”—­Frank Mura, steward, storekeeper, and cook of the Queen, retreated into the nearest cabin doorway as the young Salarik flashed down the ladder into his section.

Dane, with the now resigned Sinbad in the crook of his arm, had tailed his guest and arrived just in time to see the native come to an abrupt halt before one of the most important doors in the spacer—­the portal of the hydro garden which renewed the ship’s oxygen and supplied them with fresh fruit and vegetables to vary their diet of concentrates.

The Salarik laid one hand on the smooth surface of the sealed compartment and looked back over his shoulder at Dane with an inquiry to which was added something of a plea.  Guided by his instinct—­that this was important to them all—­Dane spoke to Mura: 

“Can you let him in there, Frank?”

It was not sensible, it might even be dangerous.  But every member of the crew knew the necessity for making some sort of contact with the natives.  Mura did not even nod, but squeezed by the Salarik and pressed the lock.  There was a sign of air, and the crisp smell of growing things, lacking the languorous perfumes of the world outside, puffed into the faces.

The cub remained where he was, his head up, his wide nostrils visibly drinking in that smell.  Then he moved with the silent, uncanny speed which was the heritage of his race, darting down the narrow aisle toward a mass of greenery at the far end.

Sinbad kicked and growled.  This was his private hunting ground—­the preserve he kept free of invaders.  Dane put the cat down.  The Salarik had found what he was seeking.  He stood on tiptoe to sniff at a plant, his yellow eyes half closed, his whole stance spelling ecstasy.  Dane looked to the steward for enlightenment.

“What’s he so interested in, Frank?”

“Catnip.”

“Catnip?” Dane repeated.  The word meant nothing to him, but Mura had a habit of picking up strange plants and cultivating them for study.  “What is it?”

“One of the Terran mints—­an herb,” Mura gave a short explanation as he moved down the aisle toward the alien.  He broke off a leaf and crushed it between his fingers.

Dane, his sense of smell largely deadened by the pungency with which he had been surrounded by most of that day, could distinguish no new odor.  But the young Salarik swung around to face the steward his eyes wide, his nose questing.  And Sinbad gave a whining yowl and made a spring to push his head against the steward’s now aromatic hand.

So—­now they had it—­an opening wedge.  Dane came up to the three.

“All right to take a leaf or two?” he asked Mura.

“Why not?  I grow it for Sinbad.  To a cat it is like heemel smoke or a tankard of lackibod.”

And by Sinbad’s actions Dane guessed that the plant did hold for the cat the same attraction those stimulants produced in human beings.  He carefully broke off a small stem supporting three leaves and presented it to the Salarik, who stared at him and then, snatching the twig, raced from the hydro garden as if pursued by feuding clansmen.