"Well, aren't they something to see?" Lillian Ransby, the linguist asked.
"I wonder how we look to them," Paul Meillard said.
That was something to wonder about, too. The differences between
one and another of the Terrans must puzzle them. Paul Meillard, as
close to being a pure Negro as anybody in the Seventh Century of
the Atomic Era was to being pure anything. Lillian Ransby, almost
ash-blond. Major Gofredo, barely over the minimum Service height
requirement; his name was Old Terran Spanish, but his ancestry
must have been Polynesian, Amerind and Mongolian. Karl Dorver,
the sociographer, six feet six, with red hair. Bennet Fayon,
the biologist and physiologist, plump, pink-faced and balding.
Willi Schallenmacher, with a bushy black beard....
They didn't have any ears, he noticed, and then he was taking stock
of the things they wore and carried. Belts, with pouches, and knives
with flat bronze blades and riveted handles. Three of the delegation
had small flutes hung by cords around their necks, and a fourth had
a reed Pan-pipe.
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