“What about them?”

John of the Hawks drew back from the door and stared at it. He was tired to the point where his mind was half blank or the reality of the situation would have come home to him quicker. He scowled his puzzlement and put his ear back to the door.

A voice was saying, “They’re platinum.” “Platinum? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I think Harmon’s right. Look at this, Skipper.”

“Who’d ever use platinum for faucets?” Another voice, the second one John had heard, broke in. “A people who have so much of it that it’s comparatively worthless, that’s who.” There was an element of awe in the tone.

“Here, let me scratch it with this knifeblade.” John had removed his belt with its skean and claidheammor, but now he went over to his bed and picked the harness up again and belted it about his waist, still scowling. He went back to the door and pressed his ear against it once more.

The voice that had disclaimed knowledge of ethnology, whatever that was, was saying, “A really primitive culture. They must have an unbelievable system of rituals and taboos.”

He who was addressed as Skipper said, “Why do you say that?”

“Because their language has changed, over a period that must amount to centuries, so little from Earth basic. And they still retain so many customs of the original Earth. Only very strict adherence to taboos and rituals would maintain such institutions so well. It’s too bad we’re not a larger expedition with a few anthropologists and such along.”

“Oh, no it isn’t.”

The skipper’s voice said, “What do you mean, Harmon?”

“I mean platinum. Probably mountains of it. There are only eight of us. Four back on the ship, and us. Good. Only that number to split it with.” There was a long pause.

John could stand it no longer. He opened the door and walked through, staring.