Aw heck, you’ve guessed.” He looked downcast. “Yeah, I’m an alien. Oh. Thank you.” The drinks arrived; he passed one to her. “You do look funny,” she said, inspecting him. “ ‘Funny’?” he said indignantly. She shrugged. “Different.” She drank. “But not all that different.” She leaned forward on the table. “Why do you look so similar to us? I know all the outworlders aren’t humanoid, but a lot are. How come?” “Well,” he said, hand at his mouth again, “it’s like this: the . . .” — he belched — “. . . the dust clouds and stuff in the galaxy are . . . its food, and its food keeps speaking back to
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