“Sure,” said Gil. “Hey, how’d you know we can do that?”

“Never mind. OK, we’ll sneak off to my apartment and send out for some Earth-style clothes for you, and then—”

* * *

John Joseph O’Reilly, Cardinal Archbishop of New York, had friends in high places as well as in low. He thought it no shame to pull wires and arrange an interview with the chaplain of the spaceship. What he could learn might be of vital importance to the Faith. The priest from the stars arrived, light-screened to evade the curious, and was received in the living room.

Visible again, Thyrkna proved to be a stocky white-haired man in the usual blue-kirtled uniform. He smiled and shook hands in quite an ordinary manner. At least, thought O’Reilly, these Galactics had during a million years conquered overweening Pride.

“It is an honor to meet you,” he said.

“Thanks,” nodded Thyrkna. He looked around the room.

“Nice place you got.”

“Please be seated. May I offer you a drink?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

O’Reilly set forth glasses and a bottle. In a modest way, the Cardinal was a connoisseur, and had chosen the Chambertin-Clos carefully. He tasted the ritual few drops. Whatever minor saint, if any, was concerned with these things had been gracious; the wine was superb. He filled his guest’s glass and then his own.

“Welcome to Earth,” he smiled.

“Thanks.” The Galactic tossed his drink off at one gulp. “Aaah! That goes good.”

The Cardinal winced, but poured again. You couldn’t expect another civilization to have the same tastes. Chinese liked aged eggs while despising cheese…

He sat down and crossed his legs. “I’m not sure what title to use,” he said diffidently.

“Title? What’s that?”

“I mean, what does your flock call you?”

“My flock? Oh, you mean the boys on board? Plain Thyrkna. That’s good enough for me.” The visitor finished his second glass and belched. Well, so would a cultivated Eskimo.

“I understand there was some difficulty in conveying my request,” said O’Reilly. “Apparently you did not know what our word chaplain means.”

“We don’t know every word in your lingo,” admitted Thyrkna. “It works like this. When we come in toward a new planet, we pick up its radio, see?”

“Oh, yes. Such of it as gets through the ionosphere.”

Thyrkna blinked. “Huh? I don’t know all the de-tails. You’ll have to talk to one of our tech…technicians. Anyway, we got a machine that analyzes the different languages, figures ’em out. Does it in just a few hours, too. Then it puts us all to sleep and teaches us the languages. When we wake up, we’re ready to come down and talk.”

The Cardinal laughed. “Pardon me, sir. Frankly, I was wondering why the people of your incredibly high civilization should use our worst street dialects. Now I see the reason. I am afraid our programs are not on a very high level. They aim at mass taste, the lowest common denominator—and please excuse my metaphors. Naturally you— But I assure you, we aren’t all that bad. We have hopes for the future. This electronic educator of yours, for instance…what it could do to raise the cultural level of the average man surpasses imagination.”