“It has been approximately 962 Terran years since my creation, Superorganism-relative. In subjective time, I am 612 Terran years.” “I see,” she lied and decided not to push lest she reveal her ignorance any further—after all, to a human, the difference between a six-hundred-year-old alien and a nine-hundred-year-old alien was nominal.
“What has you frightened?” he asked, his focus narrowing into a point. A whimper crawled up her throat, and she tamped it back down. “These are very powerful men,” she mouthed. “They represent your own government,” he said. “Why are you afraid of your own government?”
“He says, ‘Communication is neither smooth nor painless,’” she stammered.
“Well, he doesn’t like to be interrupted,” said Cora. “So … here it is. He says, ‘The human fascination with intelligent exoterran species focuses on their similarity to humans. Humanity is not prepared for any cultural, biological, or ideological disparities it may encounter. No species is. “‘One species is only comprehensible to another species as it understands itself. But with all species, there are attributes one possesses that the other does not share. Where attributes are not shared, inevitably both parties will try to shape the other into a form they can understand.’”
Vri åtter som grunnstein i utviklinga av livet:
Cora picked her cards back up, deciding now was a good time to change the subject. “Do you like this game?” “No,” he said. She chuckled, still tense from the conversation. “Why?” “Because it offers little opportunity to strategize. It is mostly a game of chance.” “The same could be said about life,” offered Cora. “Yes,” he said. “That is why I don’t like it.”