“How’s this sound?” he said, looking up from his writing. “You certainly have a carcass capable of generating heat.”
I thought for a moment. “I think you probably mean, ‘hot body.’”
“That might be a little strong for the first letter,” I said. But he didn’t hear me. The character in question walked across a room in the scene we were watching and it caught his attention.
“Would you look at that …, “ he began.
“I can see it,” I said, interrupting him. “May I ask you something?”
“Wait a minute,” he said. Then, after Penny had left the scene, he turned to me. “Are you sure it makes you go blind?”
Ignoring him, I continued, “I would easily understand why you like a show about four young physicists,” I said. “But you seem fixated on the only non-scientist on the show.”
“Shut up,” he said. “I just had a thought.” He returned to his letter, speaking the words as he wrote. “Physicists are a dime-for-twelve but your body is a solitary splendor that would fetch top dollar.” He paused. “How does that sound?”
“I’m sure she will be overwhelmed.”
“I think television is one of your species’ more interesting phenomenon,” he said, sticking the pencil lead to his tongue and then to the paper.
“Then why is a sitcom your favorite? Why not one of the more educational shows?”
“Such as?” he said, turning to me with a questioning look.
The question took me by surprise, and I couldn’t come up with a quick answer.
“Your so-called ‘History Channel?’”
“Well, maybe not that one.”
“Not unless one really believes that Leonardo de Vinci was an alien.”
“I’ve told you over and over again,” he said. “We have only planted one alien unit on Earth in all our panspermian efforts.”
“I know. I know.”
“And you know that we placed it in a remote spot to minimize the chance of catastrophe.”
|Dear Penny: If you would only give me|
the chance, I couild teach you a thing or two
about physics that those four guys
never dreamed of. - Your fan, C.W.
“You had to come here to keep tabs.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Now leave me alone. He started to write, “I want so badly to stick my tongue in …”
“C.W.,” I said.
“A dish of Falloonian Congomeracity Pudding, when I see your sweet smile.”
Then he stopped and looked at me.