coming out of the little forest at the end of the path, kirk paused to take in the scene. between him and the river was a wild jumble of men and women, laughing and talking, children running and stumbling over small pet animals, piles of nuts and fruits and hot foods heaped together beside small fires. some of the people sat on straw mats, but most, simply on the ground. there were neither tables nor chairs. to kirk it looked like utter confusion.

with a sense of gratitude, he saw a tall, uniformed figure coming up to him, with a brisk, definite stride. the terran's face was lined and firm, the kind of face kirk was familiar with. the man with this face would be a man who stood for no nonsense, a man who was a little tough, but also fair and capable. he recognized him as he came closer.

"hello, sir. i'm matt cortland, your second in command," he said brusquely. "i met you this afternoon, but you met so many people then it must have been just a blur of names and faces."

kirk greeted him, feeling a sense of satisfaction that this man would be his chief assistant. he looked efficient; he should be able to help him learn the ropes and get a program of action started.

"no chairs," cortland said laconically, as they walked toward the gathering. he chose a soft spot of lavender-tinted moss near a pile of hot food and sat down, cross-legged. awkwardly, kirk sat down beside him, folding his legs under him stiffly. "you can be served in your rooms, of course, if you like," cortland went on, turning to him. "these people are very obliging. very obliging." he reached for two of the leaf-wrapped, steaming objects, handing one to kirk. "but you probably have a better chance of influencing them if you eat among them. if they can be influenced." he opened the leaf and bit into the yellow vegetable inside.

kirk looked dubiously at the object in his hand. he hoped it wouldn't make him sick. pushing back his sense of disgust, he bit into it carefully. the bland, sweetish flavor filled him with delightful surprise. it was rather like a mixture of sweet potato, carrot, and peach synthetics—but the texture and flavor were new and wonderful. maybe civilization had lost something good when it gave up natural foods. though, of course, their preparation was time-wasting and inefficient, he reminded himself; and swallowing synthetics required only a momentary break in your work when you were pressed for time. he looked up and found cortland watching him.

"pretty different from the food at home, eh?" he had slipped into the terran language. "good food and pretty girls." he gestured toward the graceful, half-nude women scattered along the mossy bank. "everything for the lotus-eaters."

the phrase meant nothing to kirk.

one of the girls came over to them with a large gourd full of fruit and nuts, and another on which she heaped hot foods from the piles on the ground as she passed. she placed them on the ground beside the two men.

"yes, everything for the lotus-eaters," cortland repeated. "incidentally, i hope you're not under the impression that that girl is naked from the waist up."

kirk looked at him questioningly.

"oh, no. she's completely covered. they have taboos about naked breasts, just like we do." he laughed at kirk's look of mystification. "you notice those strands of shells or woven reeds they wear around their necks?"

kirk looked around. they all wore them.

"well, that signifies they are dressed. if you ever see a native girl without one, she'll be terribly embarrassed." he stuck his hand out toward the bowl of hot food. "after you've been here long enough you'll think they're dressed, too."

he laughed, then looked more serious.

"i've been here a long time, getting nowhere," he said, in a different tone. "there are a lot of things that could be done here. i've spent a lot of time thinking about it. but jerwyn—" he hesitated. "i hope you intend to make the name of the galactic union mean something here."

kirk nodded, and cortland went on. "jerwyn tried when he first came. but after awhile he seemed to just give up. i couldn't do anything without him backing me, i don't have enough authority." he looked grim as he spoke. "and besides that, it takes more than one good man. oh, the other gu men here are capable enough—" he glanced toward a group of terrans sitting nearby. "they'll be over in a little while to speak to you, incidentally; i asked them to hold off for a little, while i briefed you a bit—no sense deluging you with new people while you're trying to eat."

"but to get back," he went on, "they're capable enough, or they were once, anyway, but none of them has the drive and brains it takes to push through a project to develop this planet. they've pretty well given up. some of them like it here and some of them don't, but they've all stopped trying." a look of contempt crossed his face. "they go through the motions of doing some work to earn their salaries, knock off at noon, and spend their time lying around on the beaches with nemarian girls. i've done what i could to keep a semblance of discipline, but it's uphill work."

kirk looked at him steadily. "all that's going to be changed."

cortland smiled. "good." their eyes met, with understanding.

"and i'm very happy to have a man of your caliber with me," kirk said quietly.

cortland gave him a long look. "maybe you've got what it takes. maybe you have." he nodded slowly. "i should have told you i don't entirely blame the men. this planet's a tough nut to crack." his voice was grim.

kirk felt a vague uneasiness, but his look stayed determined. "we'll crack it."

"we've been here forty years, and we haven't made a dent. they're funny people, these nemarians. they're really alien. i've been here fifteen years, and i don't understand them any better than when i came."

"that's quite a statement."

"they're very appealing. naive. childlike. the soul of courtesy—on the surface. but it's deceptive. and you could spend a lifetime trying to find out what's underneath."

a young boy of about twelve came up as he spoke, setting a large gourd full of steaming liquid down beside them with lithe grace, filling smaller cups from it as he did so. cortland nodded at him, turning again to kirk as the boy walked away. "even their children aren't really childlike. did you see his eyes—makes you damned uncomfortable."

as kirk started to answer, drum-beats began to fill the air, first softly, then louder. strange sounds from unfamiliar instruments began to mingle with them, and a clear, high instrument added a melody. the whole effect had an alien, discordant quality for kirk, but as he listened further he grew intrigued and began to enjoy it; a mood—happy and romantic and energetic, all at once—came through to him from the music.

"the dancing's beginning," cortland informed him.

kirk saw young men and women rise by ones and two's and begin swaying and turning their bodies to the music. they all seemed to be doing different things, and yet somehow it made an integrated pattern. to his surprise older people and even young children gradually joined in, and managed not to look inappropriate, although the dance movements were rapid and strenuous.

he noticed a sweet, pungent odor filling his nostrils and realized it came from the steaming bowl beside them. he picked up one of the filled cups and tried it cautiously. it was delightful. he emptied it and poured another.

he felt cortland's hand on his arm, and looked up to find him grinning at him. "hey, take it easy with that stuff. that's fermented kara root—the local variety of booze. they can drink quarts of the stuff and be all right; i've never seen one of them really drunk. but you'd better not try it."

kirk frowned. "something different in our metabolism? i thought—"

"no, they're quite human," cortland broke in. "and it's not a matter of immunity. i wondered about it for a long time—and got quite disgracefully drunk a couple of times, keeping up with them, before i figured it out." he sipped at his own cup. "no, the secret of their success is the dancing."

kirk looked at the light, whirling figures, puzzled.

cortland smiled at his bewilderment. "it's the exercise. it burns up the alcohol as fast as they drink it. when they're having a real feast, they dance and drink all night, till they collapse from pure exhaustion. they wake up feeling fine—not a sign of a hangover. of course, tonight they'll only dance for a little while, so they'll only drink a little...."