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The Thing From the Thing From Another World by Colin P. Davies When all the shooting and blasting and bludgeoning were finally over and the hairy giant carcass had been hauled onto seven different trucks and the disgusting residue of blood and alien guts had been shovelled from the White House lawn, the twopla relaxed and stretched out its six slender legs across the crisp brown bed of a blade of dead grass. Washington was beautiful in the Fall, no doubt about it, but the visitor was disappointed. The capital was not on its itinerary. The trip should have been quiet and comfortable. That was before the Grog had decided to have a word with the President — a na�0�7ve decision which had been destined to end in misunderstanding. When the time came to go home, the twopla would have to hitch a new ride. As was the way with twoplas, the male bi-brain was subservient but vocal and, after several hundred sleep cycles cooped up in the ear cavity of the enterprising trader from Grogor, he was now able to let rip. On the left side of the twopla’s black spherical head, the male mouth set up a rapid chatter: “I feel naked. Sunlight ignites my melancholy. Find me a hole. Find me a dark hole. Home is such a sweet place to be. Take me home. I feel... ” “Quiet!” On the right side of the head, the female mouth pressed hard lips together. A human was approaching. The twopla adjusted its backpack, unfurled transparent wings and took to the air. It matched speed with the running man and alighted on his shoulder, then hooked its tail into the open weave of his sports jacket. “I’m hungry,” said the male half of the brain. “Patience.” The creature extended
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