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And the only really worrying thing was that, with all these humans around him, especially all these human
females (none of them as big and glorious as Marguery Darp, but all of them definitely female, all the
same), he could not help a certain arousal.
When one of the salesgirls turned her head away, flushed and smiling, as she helped measure his trouser
length, and several of the onlookers giggled among themselves, he realized that the bulge of his arousal
was showing through the fabric; and what did one do aboutthat?
Among the Hakh hli, that was an occasion for rejoicing. Any female nearby would have been glad to
cooperate. But he wasn t among the Hakh hli.
All the films that ever Sandy had watched had not told him exactly how one went about getting it on with
a human Earth female, however assiduously he studied them for clues. It wasn t that there weren t
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definite protocols. Indeed, the mating rituals were in fact the main subject of most of the films, especially
the ones where the boy and the girl sang love songs to each other and then danced away to the music of
an invisible orchestra. Sandy could easily have played the part of Fred Astaire as, in that first, accidental
glance, he knew at once that Ginger Rogers was the only woman in the world for him and was spurned
by her with apparent loathing and, by singing in her ear and whisking her through a waltz or tango,
finally melted her frozen heart and tap-danced away with her to, presumably, a bed. But he never heard
that invisible orchestra. Besides, he couldn t dance.
Then there were the ones where the boy saves the girl from the enemy in a war, or from gangsters
or terrorists, and naturally falls into bed with her; but where was the war? Then there were the more
direct ones. The boy and the girl would enter separately into a singles bar (whatever a singles bar was),
whereupon one would sit down with a drink and the other would come up to her. Then they would
address coded remarks to each other. The code was easy enough to break, but hard to duplicate. The
conversations all had two levels of meaning, and Sandy was not at all sure that his language skills were up
to that sort of thing. Still, it was the most direct way; because as soon as they had received each other s
appropriate recognition signals it was, Your place or mine?
Sandy found one encouraging thing about the situation he did have a place, a hotel room, and all his
own but where was the necessary singles bar to make the suggestion? For that matter, where was the
time for such things? As soon as he had clothes to wear (the rest wouldn t be finished until tomorrow)
Marguery whisked him away.
What about Polly and Obie? he demanded, looking back to where they were talking with other
humans.
They have their own escorts, she told him. But the people of Earth are naturally specially interested in
you, and we ve arranged a television interview for you alone. It s only a block away.
She whisked him over to a different kind of building. This was almost unique in Dawson because it
extended ten whole stories above the ground, and the place she took him to was on the very top floor.
This is the TV studio, she informed him. She looked him up and down. You look very handsome, she
added.
Do I? he asked gratefully. He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, admiring his new clothes tan
cotton shorts, a short-sleeved shirt open to display his chest, sandals, and knee-length white socks with a
strip of red at the tops. I suppose I do, he agreed complacently. Now what do we do?
We just go right in here, said Marguery, conducting him to a large room with eight or ten human beings
gathered around, with of course the television cameras (or some kind of cameras) pointed at him.
A man in a blue turtleneck advanced toward him, extending his hand. I m Wilfred Morgenstern, he
said, wincing only slightly as Sandy remembered not to squeeze too hard in a handshake. I m your
interviewer. Why don t you just start at the beginning and tell us your whole story?
Sandy looked around, perplexed, but Marguery was nodding encouragingly. Well, Sandy said, a long
time ago, when you were having your war here on Earth, the Hakh hli ship came to investigate this solar
system . . .
It was a long interview, and when it was over Marguery said sympathetically, Would you like something
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to eat before I take you back to the hotel? I guess it s been a long day for you.
Sandy agreed fervently; not only long in that so much had happened, but it was one of those
twenty-four-hour Earth days that stretched so much past the normal Hakh hli span. But he pointed at the
window. It s still light out, he observed.
We have long days here in the summer, Marguery explained. It s quite normal to go to bed while it s
still light.
He wasn t listening; he had taken a closer look out the window and he caught his breath. It was nearly
sunset. The whole western sky was a mass of color, whipped-cream clouds tinted in shades of pink and
mauve and orange where they were not snowy white. It isbeautiful! he exclaimed.
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