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// Chapter 21 - Imperial Life 
// Story: The Children of Planet Earth 
// by Chicago Ted 
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Adam was not the biggest fan of bureaucracy. It was slow, inefficient, and it had a tendency of outlawing alternatives to keep the illusion of being the only option. But even here, it was a necessary evil when gaining citizenship in Ơhesti – or the Harmonic Empire, as Twilight had first translated it when speaking to Zodiac-Altair – as she was apparently still in negotiations with Yere Kisữ.

Harmonic. . . that was not a word he was expecting to use in relation to the ‘ponies’ – another word Twilight chose to use, after Adam inadvertently described them as much shorter in stature. In any case, he quickly memorized the root for ‘harmony’ – ơh, a very simple root, almost a particle – when he realized just how much of a cornerstone it was in their culture. Everything had to be harmonious, they insisted upon it. For one, a human observer would assume that two ponies working together would merely remain coworkers – but to the ponies themselves, they had to be thick as thieves for them to work at their best. A small wonder, then, that this sacred, universal harmony was reflected in their own language as well.

It’s almost as if it’s been engineered, he mused to himself earlier that morning.

As he had discovered the other day, having a mailbox in front of the lander was an enormous step towards legitimizing himself as a resident in Ginzol – not to mention that now ponies could send mail directly to him, instead of having to go through Twilight, who for all intents and purposes had acted as his agent. It was an odd affair, for them and for him alike, but a necessary one for the time being.

Once he had gotten word back from Dr. Weiss that certain plants and meats on Rhysling were likely safe for human consumption. . . he was frankly conflicted by the revelation. On one hand, he was excited to try some of these new, exotic flavors denied to his ancestors and contemporaries back on Earth. But on the other, it meant taking the same risk those same people did when they first explored and settled their world.

That conflict was going to come to a head, sooner or later. As many packets of food Dr. Konstantinov had packed for him when he first landed on Rhysling, even that was a finite number, and one that would eventually run out. By one last count, he had enough for four more local days – with regular consumption. Rationing could stretch it to three or four more – but then, that was it. He’d either have to get a supply drop from Zodiac-Altair – an enormous waste of supplies, considering how close he was to completion – or he would have to swallow his fears and try something local.

“Hõ Ħedem?” he heard outside the lander. Though he couldn’t see past the crude drape that now adorned the doorway – which still let the cold air in, but it did mean he need not constantly swing such a stiff and heavy door open and shut all the time – he instantly recognized Sulfoyarqa’s voice and dialect. “Se ħalvu?”

“Em, em, se alru,” he affirmed. He got up from his desk and his studies, went over to the doorway, and swished the curtain aside to reveal the yellow-and-pink pegasus. “Riwe fưsữlvư?” he asked her – he didn’t mean to be rude, of course; Ơhqer allowed some bluntness in the language, particularly with good friends. In a way, he was testing her, gauging how she saw him.

And from the way she responded, it seemed they were close friends after all. “Zjomozuru ħelsi zjogṛzalvu,” she explained. Adam recognized the root for ‘hunger’ in the second verb, after Twilight took her time to drill that into his head. “Ħiki sulaya zjoħuburu. Susaya fưsữlvư?”

Adam looked around the corner where she pointed her left wing – and found a good variety of fruits, vegetables, and cuts of meat that she had apparently brought for him. Somehow she had heard through the grapevine of his current predicament, and so decided to try to resolve it. Before he could make his answer, he had to cross-reference them with the list of items Dr. Weiss considered human-edible, to reduce the risk of accidental poisoning.

“Pise sãlu ayladal,” he excused himself. He dropped the curtain, letting it fall back into place to cover the entrance, while he checked his admittedly-messy desk for the sheet of notepaper where he jotted down such a list, with various corrections and amendments made in the margins. Where is it, where is it. . . ? Oh. He flipped up the Ơhqer grammar textbook, which laid open on the desk, and found the list lying neatly beneath the back cover, perfectly covered by the linen board. Typical.

He brought it back with him to Sulfoyarqa, and showed it to her. She was literate – necessarily so, to get the right supplies for her many non-pony friends – and he had also taken the time to write down the names of the items in Ơhqer. “Sulayayay ala esj ṛs alnjamye,” he told her. I hope I got the right noun class – there are just three, but they’re tricky for me!

“Mmm. . . .” Sulfoyarqa had to squint to look at the list properly, placing a hoof upon her chin as though deep in thought, obviously paying attention to what may as well be chicken scratches on the paper. But she works with chickens, doesn’t she? Or chicken-like beings, now that I think about it. . . . “Sula harakoħacãru?” she asked him.

Adam needed a moment to process what she was asking, as she just used a verb he had never heard before. He thought he could recognize the verb ‘to write,’ but didn’t want to jump to conclusions – not since he remembered calling Twilight a cat for half a month. Then he watched her pull a grease pencil and paper from her satchel, and realized what she wanted to do.

“Em.” He nodded, and held the paper steady in front of her. But Sulfoyarqa instead opted for him to set it down on the ground in front of her – so he did. As she copied his list, she cross-referenced it with what she had brought for him, and one by one gave some of them to him.

None of the cuts of meat she had brought ended up in his hands after all. Perhaps the cooking methods Dr. Weiss demanded to make them safe just weren’t in their technological grasp. That he would have to resolve at some point – show them how to cook at just the right constraints with just the right techniques to eliminate the prions and other whatnot that might otherwise kill him.

Or perhaps it was something another civilization had developed – and not the Harmonic Empire. Those gryphon beings might know a thing or two, now that I think about it. But he hadn’t met a single one here. Does the Empire not extend into their domain? He’d have to check the maps with Twilight one of these days.

“Ħedem xurucru!” Sulfoyarqa had apparently finished copying down his list, and had bowed her head and left the lander. Though the curtain blocked the view, he could hear her leap off the scaffolding and hit the ground, judging by the impact of hooves on soil and her slight whimpering grunt as she landed. But isn’t she a pegasus? he thought. She could easily fly off the platform and back home – and by all accounts she should. Or maybe it’s just her and not every other pegasus. A question for another day, no doubt.

For now, though, she had made that hard decision for him – what to do when the imported foods ran out. Now it was time to inform the rest of the crew. “Zulu-Alfa, this is Somerset,” he radioed. “Come in, over.” It was going to be a long-winded explanation, and he wanted to make sure someone on the ship would hear it.

And hear they would – or at least one man would. “This is Zulu-Alfa,” Dr. Konstantinov responded.

“Just wanted to inform you,” Adam explained, “I’m about to consume local foodstuffs. Sulfoyarqa noticed that my. . . imported supply was running low, and opted to bring more to resupply. I showed her the list, and have narrowed it down to what Dr. Weiss has considered safe from the last check. Please acknowledge, as these may be my last words. Over.”

“Acknowedged, Dr. Somerset. I will tell the others.” The Russian paused for a moment. “How much imported do you have left? We could send a supply drop to you, with the permission of command. Over.”

“Thank you Zulu-Alfa, but I don’t think that will be necessary.” He glanced back at the pile just at the door. “I’m going to trust Dr. Weiss on this one. I will radio back with any immediate effects. Stay on the line until that happens. Somerset out.” He set the radio down and glanced back again. What should I start with?

He remembered the persistent insistence of Njeledirve on testing the apple-like fruits that she grew on her family orchard, all of which time and time again came back safe for human consumption. He also noted some strawberry-like fruits next to them, and next to that pile were some of the more basic breads. Made from those simple meal grains I saw in that book, he thought, There’s one in town, I’ll bet. Probably. He tried to picture the amber waves of grain dancing in a gentle midday breeze.

He sighed, and started making peace with himself. If I die here, he thought, I’ll at least die for the colony. Though the memory was foggy from cryostasis, he remembered that one clause in that phonebook of a contract he signed with NASA.

“Here goes nothing. . . ,” he muttered to himself. He got up from the desk and walked over to the pile of food. Kneeling down, he reached over to one of Njeledirve’s fruits, grabbed it up, and brought it up to his face. He smelled it first – but if it had a scent, he could not easily detect it with his human nose. But that doesn’t mean it won’t kill me, he reminded himself. Oh well, no going back now. Cautiously, he brought his tongue out, and plied it on the surface.

It tasted like. . . nothing, save for just the slightest suggestion of sweetness – a promise of glucose beneath the surface. So let’s see if that’s right. He retracted his tongue, but kept his mouth open, as he guided the fruit past the teeth. He brought his jaws together, taking a small nibble out of the fruit’s body.

There it is! The sweetness of the fruit’s skin was correct in suggesting the true taste of the rest – sweet as any apple back on Earth. But do the seeds contain cyanide? He checked the list – there wasn’t any mention of it. He would have to radio and find out.

Radio! Right! I should let them know I’m still alive! He got back up from the floor and went back to the desk. “Zulu-Alfa, this is Somerset, come in,” he opened. He sat back and waited for them to reply.

It took a bit longer than last time, but then it did come. “This is Zulu-Alfa.” This time it was the commander who answered Adam’s call – either he had taken control of the radio, or Anton was too busy with something else. “Go ahead, over.”

Better catch him up real quick. “Did Dr. Konstantinov tell you what I was about to do?” Adam asked first. “Over.”

“Affirmative, Somerset,” Louis replied. “So how was your first local meal? Feeling sick afterwards? Over.”

“Negative!” Adam answered – perhaps with a little too much enthusiasm. “I have suffered no ill effects from eating the apple analogues.” But now I should pop that question to Dr. Weiss. “Is Dr. Weiss on the bridge? I have something to ask her, over.”

“She’s right here in the bridge, stand by please.” The radio fell silent for a minute – then a female Swiss-accented voice came on: “ – hear him just fine, merssi vilmal! Ah, yes, Dr. Somerset, you said you had a question, yes? Over.”

“I remember reading somewhere that apple seeds contained cyanide,” Adam asked. “Did the probe ever find any traces from the seeds in Rhyslinger apples, or did you never test them to such an extent? Over.” He leaned back, anticipating a decently-long wait for the answer.

Which he received a few minutes later. “It appears that the probe did nick one such seed in the middle of testing,” she replied. “Fortunately, it contains no toxic chemical compounds – toxic at least to us, for it may be a different story for the ponies. That is probably why I did not noticed until you pointed it out, so thank you for that.”

Crissake, Adam started to realize, I came that close to dying over an apple!?

“In any case, the seeds from all other plants had been tested as well,” she added. “No dangers are present in any of them either. They are completely safe, you have my word. Anything else, Dr. Somerset? Over.”

Well, when you put it that way. . . . “Negative, Zulu-Alfa,” he answered. “I think I’ll be fine. Somerset out.” He set the radio down, and continued eating the fruit. In time he would also try the bread, finding it just as safe and filling, the packets of food in the cargo hold wholly forgotten.


––––


It was market-day in Ginzol once again, and Adam had one thing in mind: soap. Not for himself – the soap bottles on the lander were still good for some time. No, he needed soap for his clothing – he had been wearing Cesel’s clothes perhaps a little too long, and the familiar scent of sweat had started seeping through the fibers. He’d have to wash them. Thankfully, today was a good day to do just that.

Clothes – apparently these ponies knew he was modest, and Cesel had tailored an outfit for him. She wouldn’t take payment for it either, even though he insisted. In any case, this outfit was composed of a white shirt, blue denim pants, – and a black overcoat. No underwear, he noted, and she also forewent any sort of footwear, including socks. Those were apparently not her specialty.

At least this way he could wear something other than such a garish shade of ‘red.’

He entered the central square and started looking around. He heard the sounds of bartering, coins clinking on the counters, a few out-of-towners trying to make a quick sale. He kept his eyes peeled, checking this way and that for anything that might resemble soap.

He finally found just what he needed after ten minutes of constant searching. Another mare – brown-furred and white-maned and -tailed, wrench for a mark – was already buying some of her own. She turned around and spotted the human. “Hõ Edem, qapata,” she greeted – and then smelled him. She recoiled just a bit, chuckled, and added “Mm, susa harsa ildḷgavu.”

“Em, xurucru,” Adam replied absentmindedly. As she went away, Adam stepped forward to the seller. “Harsa almu?” he asked the mare.

“Emem,” she said. Then she smirked – “Riqala? Mưl kelsữvư?”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Em, kelrư,” he replied dryly. “Sasa pali dḷgagiloru. Ridege?”

“Deñe degile.”

Adam fished out four silver coins from his pocket, and laid them out on the counter in front of her. “Se,” he punctuated.

She counted them up and handed him a bar of soap, about the size of his fist. Not very large for him, but he would manage it just for today. Besides, he thought, how much would a single shirt and pair of pants need anyway?

“Xurucru,” he thanked, – before quickly asking, “Ala paqiarsoas almu?”

She nodded. “Emem!”

With that answered, he started walking away from the stand. He had everything he needed for the time being; there was no reason for him to stop walking out of the market altogether. He did spot a few more familiar faces in the crowd, however, and he was sorely tempted to stop and make small talk – but that would waste time he would need to wash, not to mention he didn’t feel like he had quite enough words to do that.


··–··


Just march down to the bank of the stream, strip down, and wash his clothes. Couldn’t be simpler. Right? Well, he’d also have to wash his jumpsuit – and he hadn’t done that before. Worse, it was still also the last barrier between him and the world. But it was market-day, and ideally none of the ponies would see him after his stint in Ginzol’s central square.

The walk there took only ten minutes from the market, by his reckoning. By the bridge, he found the washboard he’d left there – one he’d found partially broken in the bushes near the lander a few days ago, which he’d fixed up himself with a bit of duct tape. He stuck his hand into the water – he felt it flowing westward, away from the mountain where Kãtṛlat was situated. Maybe that’s where the stream’s source is, he thought – noting the snowy cap atop the horn.

He crossed the bridge, so he would be washing his clothes while keeping an eye on Ginzol, just in case he was caught with his pants down. He slipped off his coat and hung it off one of the posts, away from the water – knowing it would likely take the longest to dry if it ever got wet, and he shouldn’t chance it.

His shirt followed right after, one button at a time – then noting the washboard, he turned it inside-out. His mind went back to a history project about Colonial America – how the colonists would survive day by day in the New World. He was assigned how to wash clothes the old-fashioned way. After getting a washboard from his parents, he read in the library how to do so.

But his history teacher, Mr. Wycliffe, wasn’t interested in just a simple paper on the topic, oh no. He wanted his students to learn the knowledge in practice, and that meant Adam actually had to wash clothes by hand. But with enough practice, he was able to demonstrate it to his peers at the end of the school year.

Perhaps it was a little too convenient that the Fates had directed the assignment to him, but now it was knowledge that would come in handy. Because I’m a colonist now, he realized, just like the ones in Jamestown!

Slowly, he dipped the shirt into the flowing water. Right after it was soaked, he pulled it out and, fishing the soap from his coat pocket, started scrubbing down the white cloth – especially the collar and the cuffs, which were the most problematic. He returned the shirt to the stream briefly not long after.

Next, he positioned the washboard between his legs, held down with his chin, and started scrubbing the cloth against the washboard. Back and forth, in rapid yet consistent strokes, noting the suds the soap were making as he worked the cloth. This was the reason why he turned the shirt inside-out – it kept the buttons safe from the grating on the board. He looked up suddenly – nope, not a soul to see. Not that he would have minded – he still had his jumpsuit on. He returned to scrubbing.

Once he was sure the shirt was scrubbed clean, he dipped it again into the stream. He let the flowing water rinse it out for him – giving his arms a bit of respite. He turned the article this way and that, to make sure the flow got through every pore in the cloth. He watched as the soap suds started making their way downstream to parts unknown. There we go, nice and clean. . . . He pulled it back out of the stream for the last time, and started wringing it out as best as he could. He didn’t have a clothesline to pin it to – if anything, he’d have to walk back home first – so for the time being he simply left it on the bridge’s railing.

Now for his trousers. It was tricky to put them on and take them off on top of his jumpsuit, since the latter was a one-unit assembly with detachable boots. But once he did get them off, he repeated the process as with the shirt. Soak, add soap, soak again to activate. Then scrub scrub scrub against the washboard, try to be as thorough as possible, those pockets were not doing him any favors. He felt his hands start to run raw-red, and he knew he had to stop soon. Thankfully the cool water in the stream eased the soreness in his hands as the rinsed out his trousers. He then set the pants on the bridge railing.

And now for the moment of truth. One last time, he stood up and looked around – to town, away from town, upstream, downstream. Nobody was here; he was alone. Precisely what he wanted for this next step. He undid the zipper across his chest, letting the international-orange body split open and admitting the crisp, cold Rhyslinger air. Already he could feel goosebumps rising on his chest, arms, and elsewhere. He slid his arms out the sleeves, and let the whole assembly collapse below his waist. He pulled out his feet from the integrated boots, and unzipped them from the rest of the jumpsuit. Out of paranoia, he checked in each direction again.

Nothing and noöne to be seen.

He sat back down on the cold ground and slid the jumpsuit into the water. He knew this one would take by far the longest – not just because it was the largest article of the three, but also because it hadn’t been laundered before. Once it was thoroughly soaked, he ran the bar of soap through it, making sure to get into each and every crevice in the cloth, focusing on the armpits, the collar, and the crotch. He also took care to go around his patches – they were tough, but the stitching holding them to the jumpsuit was not. A quick dip later, and he was ready to scrub.

Somehow the washboard and jumpsuit put together made a perfect cover – not that he needed it at the moment. He simply leaned back, and kept scrubbing as best he could. And there was a lot to scrub – at times, he felt like he was cleaning the same parts of the jumpsuit twice.

It took him about three minutes to get everything done – at least, it felt that long – and Adam was just about to dip it into the stream when he heard the familiar feathery flittering of pegasi flight. Crap! He made sure the washboard covered him up, as he looked skyward. There was Gugḷzimba, that gray wall-eyed messenger, making her daily rounds. I really need to start looking up one of these days. . . . He waved up to her, but she didn’t wave back. Instead, she landed right by his side, uncomfortably close to the naked human. “Ecẽhese esj vẽ ḷbaru.”

Oh, I’ve got mail, haven’t I? “Ecẽhesekepehe, xurucru.” He pointed down the road, in the direction of the lander. “Sulatal herơ alru.” He emphasized that last sentence by showing the still-unrinsed jumsuit.

“Teþelru,” she acknowledged. “Qapata!” After a quick bow, she took flight again, in the direction he had indicated.

That left Adam alone once again, hopefully for the rest of the wash and the walk back. He plunged the jumpsuit into the stream, and watched as the suds started peeling off, in a great mass of excised filth. He didn’t take it out until he was absolutely sure all the soap had been rinsed out, and it took far longer than he would have liked to admit. Once he was done, he wrung out each inch of the suit, but this time did not set it on the bridge’s railing. Instead, he picked up the washboard, the shirt, and the trousers, and set them on the same shoulder as the jumpsuit – though the washboard he left firmly between his legs, to preserve his modesty. The coat went onto his other shoulder, to keep it dry on the way back.


··


Hardly a soul came through these parts, Adam had discovered during his stay. He wasn’t sure if it was because his presence – particularly the lander’s violent arrival – had spooked travelers into taking another path, or if there genuinely wasn’t anything of interest or importance north of Ginzol. Either way, he was grateful for the solitude.

Especially now, when he had to string up his clothes on a crude clothesline, projecting off of the lander and towards the wooded area to the west. First he leaned the washboard against the lander’s leg. He started putting the jumpsuit onto the clothesline, both since it would need the most time to dry and since it was the most important article he had. His shirt followed, then his pants. And his coat stayed on his person, to keep him warm and somewhat modest in the meantime.

Adam remembered once in his childhood when he got stranded outside without his coat in the dead of winter. Not a pleasant experience in Tacoma, where it regularly snowed – and this was Rhysling, where the temperature here left liquid water on a knife’s edge. If it only gets this warm during their summer, he thought, remembering how their months worked, imagine it in their winter.

Once the clothes were up, he went to get the mail Gugḷzimba left for him. Usually he didn’t get anything – the only other time he did get mail, apart from the stuff Twilight forwarded to him, was what appeared to be a catalog for some kind of retail chain. Sure, he remembered thinking at the time, it’s useful, but not something I’ll need right this second. However, when he showed it to Twilight, she promptly threw it away – nowhere in the universe am I safe from junk mail, I guess.

Even so, he later fished it from the trash, seeing what other wonders awaited him and his human contemporaries here in the Empire. A good deal of it was food, and a lot of it appeared to come from Njeledirve’s farm in town. That must’ve been what I was inventorying, he realized. He smiled slightly, knowing his work actually meant something to them.

He also saw other items – nails, lumber, steel – things the colony could use to construct buildings. Of course, such a sheer magnitude of supplies needed, not to mention the extraordinary circumstances, would mean they’d have to negotiate a contract with the supplier. Let’s hope they’re not greedy.

But no, this was no catalog. This time, it was a paper scroll, closed with a red band, not a letter in an envelope, nor one folded into itself. And he recognized the scroll’s golden seal, emblazoned with a sun in splendor – the unmistakable mark of Her Imperial Majesty Yere Kisữ. Whatever she wanted to say to him, she wanted to make sure he knew, and not through Twilight either, despite their close relationship.

Who am I to deny her? he thought. He stepped inside the lander to ensure the letter’s privacy, undid the seal and band, and started reading it. Or tried to, at least – the writing was extremely calligraphic, full of ornamental flourishes that made it hard to discern individual glyphs. He sighed. I’m going to need some help with this one.

He didn’t have very long to wait – as he looked out the window, he saw the familiar violet-furred quadrupedal body trotting down the road. “Hey, Twilight!” Adam called out, sticking his head from behind the curtain. “Over here!” He gestured for her to enter.

Which she did instantly: with a splash of violet light and an anechoic pop!, there she stood inside the cabin. “Did you need something?” she asked – not sarcastically; her tone suggested genuine inquiry.

“Could you read this for me?” Adam held up the scroll. “It’s pretty hard for me, but I’m sure it’s from Yere Kisữ.”

Twilight’s eyes threatened to bulge out of her skull. “You’re joking!” she exclaimed. “Let me see that.” Adam offered no resistance to Twilight yanking the scroll out of his hand with her telekinetic grasp. She held it up to her eyes and started to read it to herself. It took her only a moment to decode the calligraphic hand – hoof? Grasp? What’s the word to use? – before she interpreted for him: “This is great news! Yere Kisữ has seen your progress in living in the Harmonic Empire, and she’s willing to grant you citizenship, and a place for your ship to arrive!”

Is that so!? “So have your talks with her worked?” he asked her. Sounds obvious to her, but I just want to piece all of this together.

“They must have,” she said. She furled the scroll back up, and reättached the red band and golden seal. “But this means you’ll have to go to Kãtṛlat to finish the agreement. . . and I can’t help but notice you’re not quite ready.”

“I didn’t think Yere Kisữ would make this decision so soon,” Adam confessed. “I thought it would be another month or two.”

Twilight recoiled at the potential timeline, even dropping the scroll from her grasp – then settled back down. “That might be true on Earth,” she countered, “but the Empire’s leadership is fast and. . . effeck. . . effesh. . . ?”

“Efficient,” Adam offered.

“Fast and efficient, yes,” she finished. “Yere Kisữ has existed for over a thousand years; she would know how to work with strangers to the Empire – like you.”

A thousand years!? he thought. Surely she means the position and not the individual herself. . . ! But that’s not important right now. “And I’m sure the Yere and I will stay strangers,” he commented. “Nothing personal Twilight. . . I just have this feeling.”

“Even so, you might be surprised.” She then realized, “Oh, right, your clothes! I think you’ll want them for the trip.”

“Yes, but I just washed them,” he said. “They’re still drying outside.”

“Not if I can help!” She squeezed herself past Adam and slipped through the curtain, lighting her horn as she went outside. Adam knelt down and grabbed the scroll, setting it on his desk before following her out.

As he watched, Twilight started wringing out the clothes with her force. He couldn’t help but notice just how much water was running out of the fibers – it was enough to form a trickle down the sides of each article. But the trickling stopped within a few minutes. “They should be dry now,” she said. “I hope.”

“Let me see. . . .” He ran his hand through the orange Nomex cloth, noting the soft yet rigid structure. Most importantly at hand was that it was dry, perfectly dry – as if he had never washed it at all, nor worn it. “It is,” he commented without thinking.

“Great!” she chirped. “Put those on and come with me. We’ll be taking the train there.”

Adam started unclipping the clothes from the line, but when he turned around, Twilight was still standing there, still watching him. He thought he could feel his cheeks get warmer. “Would you not look at me right now?” he asked her.

“Why? What’s the problem?”

“I’d rather not. . . eh, y’know. . . .”

“Oh. Right.” She turned around, while also keeping a lookout for any wayward ponies coming along the way. “You know I’ve seen everything about you, right Adam?”

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “But I didn’t enjoy that at all.” As he unbuttoned his coat, his mind went back to the hospital in Kãtṛlat, where they’d had to strip him down examine the rest of him, right in front of her. The only thing he felt, the feeling still vividly burnt into his head, was the flaming in his face – the same flaming that started to flare up when he saw Twilight still staring at him.

But that started to fade as he slipped on the jumpsuit. Whatever process Twilight used to wring it out  also left a slightly warm feeling to the cloth, which helped alleviate the normal cold of Rhysling’s surface. Once everything was in its proper place, he zipped up the jumpsuit. “Okay Twilight, you can look now.”

She turned around and saw Adam, fully clothed – sort of.

“May as well put the rest on,” he added. “Like your friend Cesel said, orange is not in fashion – it’d leave a bad impression on Yere Kisữ.”

Twilight cocked her head. “Orange? Is that not a food?”

Adam stifled a laugh. “It’s both.” He ran his hand over the jumpsuit’s body. “We see red and orange as two different colors. You can’t use one for the other.”

“But it looks red to me. . . .” Twilight stopped to ponder for a moment. “Never mind. Put those on, and come with me. We don’t have a lot of time.”