Miss Snow
trailed along behind her, uninvited. And, since this was a place of
business, Tarb could not claim a privacy violation. Even if it weren't a
place of business, she remembered, she couldn't--not here on Earth.
Advanced spirituality, hah!

Advanced pain in the pinions!

Stet read the first letter and her answer smilingly. "Excellent, Tarb--"
her hearts leaped--"for a first try, but I'd like to suggest a few
changes, if I may."

"Well, of course," she said, pretending not to notice the smirk on Miss
Snow's face.

"Just write this Professor B'Goot that he should do his shopping at a
grocery that offers service and practice his economies elsewhere. A
professor, of all people, is expected to uphold the dignity of his own
race--the idea, sneering at a culture that was thousands of years old
when we were still building nests! Terrestrials couldn't possibly have
any respect for him if they saw him prodding kumquats with his toes."

"It's no sillier than writing with one's vestigial wings!" Tarb blazed.

"Well!" Miss Snow exclaimed in Terran. "Well, _really_!"

Tarb started to stick out her tongue, then remembered. "I didn't mean to
offend you, Miss Snow. I know it's your custom. But wouldn't you
understand if I typewrote with my feet?"

Miss Snow tittered.

"If you want the honest truth, hon, it would make you look like a
feathered monkey."

"If you want the honest truth about what you look like to me,
dearie--it's a plucked chicken!"

"Tarb, I think you should apologize to Miss Snow!"

"All right!" Tarb stuck out her tongue. Miss Snow promptly thrust out
hers in return.

"Ladies, ladies!" Stet cried. "I think there has been a slight confusion
of folkways!" He quickly changed the subject. "Is that another letter
you have there, Tarb?"

"Yes, but I didn't try to answer it. I thought you'd better have a look
at it first, since Miss Snow didn't seem to think much of the job I did
with the other one."

"Miss Snow always has the _Times'_ welfare at heart," Stet remarked
ambiguously, and read:

_Chicago_

_Dear Senbot Drosmig:_

_I am employed as translator by the extraterrestrial division of
Burns and Deerhart, Inc., the well-known interstellar mail-order
house. As the company employs no other Fizbians and our offices are
situated in a small rural community where no others of our race
reside, I find myself rather lonely. Moreover, being a bachelor,
with neith