But it was hard to be a curmudgeon in a place like this. The spaceport was sited at the ocean’s edge; the salt tang in the air was delicious and sharp. The sun was as warm as advertised. Smiling native girls, bare-busted and buxom, greeting the tourists with wreaths of flowers and tiny bottles of some golden beverage. I pocketed the bottle and sniffed the flowers, pretending indifference to the mammalian magnificence on all sides, knowing full well that Angelina had her steely eyes on me. The crowd of voyagers moved forward so smoothly that within a few moments we were facing the official at passport control. He was as brown-skinned and smiling as the girls, but was wearing a shirt, no doubt to demonstrate his executive position.

“Bonvenu al faraiso-Aqui,” he said, extending his hand. “Viaj pasportoj, mi petas.” “So you speak Esperanto on this planet,” I said, responding in the same language as I passed over my interstellar identity card. Forged of course.

“Not everyone,” he said, still smiling, as he slipped the card into the machine before him. “Our language is the beautiful Espanol. But everyone you will meet will speak Esperanto, have no fear.” He looked at the machine’s screen while he talked, which of course revealed nothing except the blandest untrue information about me. When he returned the card he pointed to the gadget-covered camera about my neck.

“That is indeed a fine photographic apparatus you have there.” “It should be-cost me more credits than you see in a year I bet, ho-ho.” “Ho-ho,”;he echoed, the smile not quite so sincere now. “May I look at this machine?” “Why? It’s just a camera.” “There are certain regulations about cameras, you see.” “Why? Got something to hide?” The smile was definitely pasted on now and his fingers were twitching. I smiled back-then passed over the camera. “Careful now, that’s a delicate machine.” He took it from me and the back instantly sprang open. As it had been rigged to do. Coils of film rolled out. I grabbed it back.

“Now look what you’ve gone and done!” I wailed. “Spoiled all the film of my wife and our friends on the ship, and everything.” I struggled with the film and ignored his apologies-and walked pasthim with Angelina at my side. All according to plan. Our luggage was clean and we had no concealed devices about our persons. But the camera was a masterpiece of complicated gadgetry. It would take pictures-and do a number of other interesting things, all of which were strictly illegal. The day was starting well.

“My goodness, look at that!” Angelina squealed, an exact imitation of the other squeals rising on all sides. “Are they dangerous?” “What are they?” “Please, ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention. “ A uniformed guide spoke to us through a voice amplifier. “My name is Jorge and I am your tourist representative. If you have any questions, please come to me. I will now answer the first question that I know you are all asking. These friendly creatures between the traces of the little wagons are known as caballos in our language. Their history is lost in the midst of time, but the story is told that they came with us from the legendary planet called Earth, or Dirt, the fabled home of mankind. They are our friends, harmless creatures who pull our wagons and till our fields. Unprotesting and happy, they will convey you to your hotels. We leave!” The cabaUos, and their rickety wagons, combined to provide one of the most uncomfortable modes of transportation I had ever had the misfortune to experience. And they weren’t caballos at all but hay-burning horses which I had encountered before during an unplanned trip through time to Earth, the very real and unlegendary home of all mankind. But I wasn’t mentioning that in the present company. Who, despite the discomfort of the journey, were laughing and calling out shrilly to each other. Even Angelina seemed to be enjoying herself. I felt like a skeleton at a wedding.

“Whee,” I said, attempting to get into the spirit of the thing. I dug into my pocket and extracted the bottle of amber liquid the welcoming girl had given me. Undoubtedly some loathsome native concoction made from rotted fruit or old socks. I uncapped it and drained it. “Whee!” I said, and meant it this time. I called to Jorge who had the nerve to actually straddle and ride one of the horses. He thundered over at my command. I held up the bottle for his examination.

“What is this stuff, pardner? Liquid sunshine? Best booze I have tasted since I was weaned.” “We are pleased that you like it. It is made from the fermented juice of the cana and is called ron.” “Well, baby, this ron stuff is something else again. Only thing wrong with it is that it comes in such small bottles.” “In all sizes,” he laughed, and dug into his saddle bag to extract another bottle of more reasonable dimension.

“How can I ever thank you?” I enthused, snatching it from his grip.

“Easily. It will appear on your bill.” He galloped away, “Not going to get polluted this early in the day, are you?” Angelina asked as I lowered the bottle from my lips and sighed.

“Never, my sweet. Just getting in the old holiday mood. Join me?” “Later. I’m enjoying the scenery now.” It was indeed something to see. Our road wandered in easy loops down through green fields to the shore. The sand glistened cleanly in the sun and the blue ocean beckoned. Very nice. But where were the locals? Other than the drivers and Jorge there were none of them in sight. We were getting the tourist treatment all right. Fine, Jim, enjoy it for the moment. Don’t . be a spoilsport.

“Why look there, papa,” one of my fellow tourists called out in ringing tones, “Aren’t they just too cute for words?” I looked there and didn’t think they were cute at all. If anything they looked kind of miserable despite the smiles directed our way. A group of men and women were working in the field beside the road. Cutting down the tall green plants with long and lethal-looking knives. The sun was hot, the work hard, and if they weren’t fatigued and drenched •with sweat they weren’t human. I raised the camera and clicked off some shots.

Our driver turned about in his seat when he heard the buzz of the mechanism-so I photographed him as well. For a moment his fixed smile almost slipped, then his white teeth shone in a grin.

“You must save your film for the beautiful gardens and the beautiful hotel,” he said.

“Why? Is there anything wrong with taking pictures of the people working in the fields?” “No, of course not, but it is so uninteresting.” “Not to the people there. They looked tired. How many hours a day do they work?” •“I have no way of knowing those things.” “What do they get paid?” I was talking to his back. He shook the reins and did not answer me. I caught Angelina’s eye and winked. She nodded back.

“I think I’ll try some of that ron now,” she said.

The hotel was as luxurious as promised, our quarters expensively attractive. Our luggage was waiting-well-searched no doubt-and I left Angelina to do the unpacking. Since I was sure that all of my fellow tourists were male chauvinist pigsunlike me-1 was forced to fall into that role no matter how personally unattractive I found it.

“See you around when you finish that, honey,” I said, then quickly slipped out the door before I could hear her forceful rejoinder.

I pottered about the grounds, looked in on the bar, then stopping awhile by the swimming pool. I started to take a photograph of a few of the attractively nude female sunbathers, then desisted when a chill passed through me at the thought of Angelina’s reaction if she happened to run across this picture. Very possessive, my wife, and I loved it. I think. I wandered on and found the tourist shop.

It took an effort not to shudder at the little ships made of gilded clamshells, the cutesy sailor caps lettered with inspiring messages such as KISS ME YOU MAD, PASSIONATE FOOL! and KEEP ON CLANKING! With averted eyes I passed them and went on to a section filled with souvenir cards and guide books. I was looking them over when a soft voice spoke in my ear.