Someone to see you, Singh. I signed from the lavatory doorway.
“I am vast,” he replied, “I am cold, I am unsympathetic.” His fingers curled around the porcelain of the wash basin, his long back bent almost in two to bring his face before the mirror. “I am vast, I am cold, I am unsympathetic.”
I blew a sigh of exasperation through my siphon and extended a tentacle to prod him in the back while the others signed. She is at the door now. It will take some time for me to let her in.
We were on the second floor of our borrowed London townhouse, and my Martian limbs were not built for human stairs.
“I gaze down from the ellipse of reason, and fear is as distant and unimportant as the germs which congregate in a drop of water. I am vast, I am cold, I am unsympathetic.”
Percival Quincy Singh, my friend and partner and, I admit, personal project, stared into his own eyes. Hunched over as he was, and with the shoulder flanges of his exo-suit, his etoliated Moon-born body looked rather like a vulture.
It’s Mrs. Dunwitty. I got the impression you enjoyed her company.
His eyes shifted to mine and he broke off his mantra. “If only she enjoyed mine. If only she was not married to the dictator’s right-hand man.”
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