The palace proved to have surprisingly few people in it. He had been conditioned by the Com to expect a huge bureaucracy, but only three officials were in evidence in the entry hall, and he had the impression that two of them were waiting to see somebody or other. Commander Zhart introduced him to the one who seemed to belong there and bid him good luck and farewell.
The official looked him over somewhat critically. “You are an Entry?” he asked at last.
Marquoz nodded. “Yes. Newly arrived in your fair land.”
The official ignored the flattery. “What were you before?”
“A Chugach,” Marquoz told him. “That would mean very little here.”
“More than you think,” the other responded. “Although we’re both speaking Hakazit, I wear a translator surgically implanted in my brain. It translated your own term into a more familiar one. There’s a bit of telepathy or something involved, although it’d be easier if you were wearing one, too. I got a picture of what your people were like and I recognize them. Here on the Well World they are called the Ghlmonese.”
“Ghlmonese,” Marquoz repeated, fascinated. His racial ancestors… Somehow that had never occurred to him. He decided he would like to visit there someday, if he could.
“You told Commander Zhart that you worked mostly on alien worlds in your old life,” the official continued. “Glathrielites and Dillians mainly. Naked apes and centaurs. Very unlike your own kind. You said you were a spy?”