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The chain had been scheduled to reach the end of its run in three hours. It took closer to five. He got off at what would have been around midnight on Earth, and the terminus where he was supposed to take the next chain was almost empty of people, completely empty of cars. Although it was still a few minutes before his car was due, he was worried. Finally, he approached a native.

“Is this—is this not where the 39:12 to Zrig is destined to appear?” he asked, conscious as he uttered Vangtort aloud for the first time that his phrasing was not entirely colloquial.

The native stared at him with small pale eyes and bit his middle finger. “Stranger, eh?” he asked in a small pale voice.

“Yes.” The native waited. “I come from Ventimor,” Clarey told him. Nosy native, he thought furiously; prying primitive.

“You don’t hafta shout,” the native said. “I’m not deef.”

Clarey realized what he hadn’t noted consciously before—the natives spoke much more softly than Earthmen. Local custom two.

“You’ll be finding things a lot different here in Vangtor,” the native told him. “Livelier, more up to date. F’rinstance, do the cars always run on time in Ventimor?”