Now that he's a prisoner, Hansen finally finds a Harpupon...Hansen stared across the cell at the Harpupon.
“Alien intelligence, my ass,” he whispered.
The Harpupon was lying against the far wall, inert, curled up, a dog-sized cross between a rock and a potato bug.
For the hundredth time since Tlurg and his Xobon lackeys had brought in the creature, Hansen felt the urge to get up, walk the two steps, and kick it like a beachball—to watch it bounce against the wall, just to break the boredom. He suppressed it.
“Suppression won’t do any good. I felt you think that!” A voice in his head informed him. Hansen felt a thrill. There was a single antenna sticking out from the Harpupon. It was coming out!
“I did. But if you uncurl so I don’t keep thinking you’re a ball, it won’t happen again.”
“You think I’m a ball?”
“Damn straight. You look like one. Do ya bounce?”
The Harpupon thought about that.
“I don’t feel like a ball. I feel like a rock. Something you’d ignore. Why do you think I’m a ball?”
“What the fuck would a rock be doing here in the middle of a bare five by ten cell? You’re a ball.”
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