It was just Bill: ever-hopeful Bill, and she hated to encourage him because there was just no chemistry, but she was still bubbling over, wanting to show everyone her new pet. Her alien pet. "I have all the manuals," she said, "and I have a translation module for when its language ability kicks in, and I have dietary supplements, since it's adapted to a different ecosystem --" "Where is it?" Bill said. He took off his boots: a requirement, in her house. She led him into the living room, opened the carrying cage, and picked it up, very gently. It had feather-like antennas, and too many legs, and a sort of bristly fur: a teddy bear version of a termite, perhaps. Its heart was going bap-bap-bap -- poor thing. It was so adorable. She stroked its fur. "Whoa," Bill said. It squeaked. "That's its happy squeak," she said. It sounded just like the recording in the manual. "Can I hold it?" he said. She found herself reluctant. Maternal instinct. But she transferred it to him, carefully. It was so tiny it could fit entirely within his calloused hands.
