"I felt your mind probe back a few minutes ago when I was talking about
Scotland Yard or the F.B.I. possibly flushing an alien. Telepathy is a
sense not trained by the humanoids. If they had it, your job--and
mine--would be considerably more difficult. Let's face it, in spite of
these human bodies we're disguised in, neither of us is humanoid. Where
are you really from, Rupert?"
"Aldebaran," I said. "How about you?"
"Deneb," he told me, shaking.
We had a laugh and ordered another beer.
"What're you doing here on Earth?" I asked him.
"Researching for one of our meat trusts. We're protein eaters. Humanoid
flesh is considered quite a delicacy. How about you?"
"Scouting the place for thrill tourists. My job is to go around to these
backward cultures and help stir up inter-tribal, or international,
conflicts--all according to how advanced they are. Then our tourists
come in--well shielded, of course--and get their kicks watching it."
Paul frowned. "That sort of practice could spoil an awful lot of good
meat."