He opened a tight wall cabinet, originally intended to sterilize clothing
which might be contaminated by contact with organisms inimical to
Terrans. A cloud of steam fragrant with the same spicy scent poured out.

Dane gingerly tugged loose his Trade uniform, its brown silky fabric damp
on his skin as he dressed. Luckily Sargol was warm. When he stepped out
on its ruby tinted soil this morning no lingering taint of his off-world
origin must remain to disgust the sensitive nostrils of the Salariki. He
supposed he would get used to this process. After all this was the first
time he had undergone the ritual. But he couldn't lose the secret
conviction that it was all very silly. Only what Rip had pointed out was
the truth--one adjusted to the customs of aliens or one didn't trade and
there were other things he might have had to do on other worlds which
would have been far more upsetting to that core of private fastidiousness
which few would have suspected existed in his tall, lanky frame.

"Whew--out in the open with you--!" Ali Kamil apprentice Engineer,
screwed his too regular features into an expression of extreme distaste
and waved Dane by him in the corridor.

For the sake of his shipmates' olfactory nerves, Dane hurried on to the
port which gave on the ramp now tying the Queen to Sargol's crust. But
there he lingered, waiting for Van Rycke, the Cargo-master of the spacer
and his immediate superior. It was early morning and now that he was out
of the confinement of the ship the fresh morning winds cut about him,
rippling through the blue-green grass forest beyond, to take much of his
momentary irritation with them.

There were no mountains in this section of Sargol--the highest elevations
being rounded hills tightly clothed with the same ten-foot grass which