There was a vertical mouth slit about halfway down the brachiator’s broad chest. It fluttered open, but I saw no sign of dentition. Perhaps these beings didn’t play the risky game that so many of Earth’s lifeforms did, trying to use a single orifice for breathing, speaking, and eating. "Where is our brethren?" it asked. The warbling voice, high-pitched, like an adolescent boy’s, was clear and easily understood, although it still had those small gaps between each word that characterized Het speech.

I stood dumbfounded for a moment, then, gathering my wits, said, "This way." I walked over to where I’d set down the stasis box. My heart skipped a few beats. The mound of Het jelly was gone. We’d be in deep trouble if anything had happened to it. I looked around frantically, but the brachiator had already come over to stand next to me. Fortunately, its many eyes were apparently better suited than my myopic peepers for crepuscular searching. "Ah," it said. It bent its ambulatory appendages at what would correspond to the knee, lowering its torso to the ground. I saw that there was a smooth area on its back that was free from the coiling body covering, showing a rough gray skin with a pebbly texture. The jelly throbbed quickly over to that spot and began to percolate into the brachiator’s body.

In the short time it took for the jelly to enter, I came to a conclusion about the brachiator. It wasn’t an intelligent form of life. Rather, it must be a domesticated Martian animal. It made sense, of course, that there were creatures on their native world that the jelly beings used for locomotion, for hands, and for eyes. This must have been one of those. Since it had spoken, it must already be occupied by a Het. The Hets had said earlier that they weren’t individuals. I wondered if the two mounds of jelly, the one that had just entered and the one already within the brachiator, would unite into a single entity. I hoped they weren’t mad at us for killing its pachycephalosaur.

"You killed our pachycephalosaur," said the brachiator at once.

"I’m sorry," I said. "We didn’t know it was occupied. We just wanted to study its physiology. Please forgive us."

"Forgive?" The brachiator’s speaking orifice twisted in what must have been a facial expression of some sort. "It was only an animal."

I’m the one who had slaughtered that unfortunate dinosaur, but somehow the alien’s words struck me as harsher than my actions. "I didn’t want to kill it," I said. "But we learned much by studying its interior."

"Of course," said the Het in that alto voice.

"You came to retrieve your friend?" I said.

"Friend?" echoed the brachiator’s mouth.

"The Het who had been in the pachycephalosaur."

"Yes, we came to retrieve that one. When it did not return from its mission, we went looking for it. We found the butchered dinosaur and markings in the dirt that we eventually realized must have been made by some sort of vehicle belonging to you. We see now that you did no harm to the Het, but we believe our response was a prudish — a prudent — one." It had said all that without a pause for breathing. I hadn’t yet found the thing’s respiratory orifices, but I was sure now that they were completely separate from the mouth. The brachiator headed back to the fireside, and I had to jog to keep up with its Goliath strides.

Klicks was on his feet, staring at the brachiator, mouth agape. "My God," he said slowly. "You really are from somewhere else, aren’t you?"

"Yes," said the Het — the first time I’d heard it manage that word without it trailing off in a reptilian hiss.

Klicks pointed at the brachiator’s wide torso. "And that thing you’re in?"

"A vehicle. Not particularly well suited for this ecosystem — it has trouble extracting nourishment from the plant life here, and finds the sunlight too bright — but, for some application forms, a much more useful creature to inhabit."

Klicks gestured at the massive sphere behind him. "And that’s one of your spaceships?"

"Yes."

"It’s alive."

"Of course."

"Remarkable." He shook his head. "I’d give anything to take a spin in one of those."

The brachiator’s sausage eyes blinked all at once, single lids lifting up from below. "Spin," it said. "The action of a gaming wheel, no? Or to give events a desired interpretation?"

"No. Spin. A journey, a trip, a ride."

"Ah," said the brachiator. "This we can do."

"Really?" Klicks was practically jumping up and down.

"Now hold on a minute," I said.

"Seize time? No link."

"Klicks, we can’t go up in that thing."

"Why the hell not?"

"Well, look at it. It’s alive, for God’s sake. We’d have to go inside it."

"Hey, man, if Jonah could hack it in the whale, I’m all set to try my luck in a breathing spaceship. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

I shook my head. "Have you ever noticed how many once-in-a-lifetime opportunities come at the end of a person’s life? Count me out."

Klicks shrugged. "Fine. But I’m going." He turned to the brachiator. "Can we do it now?"

"Our business here is concluded. Now is fine."

Klicks jogged alongside the brachiator, over to the gray tongue entrance-ramp. I cringed as he stepped on it, but, although it yielded slightly, he didn’t seem to stick to it as I was afraid he might. The ship continued to breathe, expanding and contracting slowly. Klicks made it to the top of the ramp before I shouted out, "I’m coming! Wait up!"

I ran up the tongue and into the mouth.

I came in the front door of our house, pulled off my Totes, and placed them on the Rubbermaid mat. When I was a child in the 1970s, February in Toronto had been a month full of snow. But recent Februarys had been quite mild, with the spring rains starting before Valentine’s Day. I hung my trench coat and umbrella in the closet and made my way through the front hall and up the five steps to the living room. Tess was sitting on the couch, reading a magazine on her datapad.

"Hi, honey." I sat down next to her, brushed aside her red hair, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Howdy, stranger." Her husky voice, so unlikely given her tiny frame, carried no hint of sarcasm, so I ignored the little dig about the long hours I’d been keeping.

"How was work?" I said.

"Okay." Tess was a pension and benefits counselor for Deloitte Touche. She made more money than I did. "I think we’re going to get that contract with the provincial government."

"Good," I said. "That’s good."

The left window on her datapad was showing an article about mergers amongst American advertising firms. The other window was filled with an ad from the Franklin Mint for a collectible chess set, with pieces shaped like classic sitcom stars from the twentieth century. I read the ad.

"Tess," I said at last, "I’m going out of town for a few days."

"Again?" She pouted slightly, her full lips curving downward, her green eyes studying the carpet. It was an expression I always loved. "I thought you were through traveling for a while, now that the Chinese thing is over." The Second Canada-China Dinosaur Project had taken me away from her — something neither of us enjoyed — for four months last year.

"I’m sorry, Lambchop. This is important."

Sarcasm did tinge the throaty tones this time. "It always is. Where are you going?"

"To Vancouver."

"What’s happening out there?"

"Nothing, really. I — I just have to do some research at one of the university libraries."