I flattened down on the bunker roof. In the two days our group had been on Caproche, Jerith had already passed his quota for peeks down my blouse. I didn’t fuss about it — he seemed harmless, just a guy who hadn’t seen a woman in a long, long time — but I refused to give him the ogling opportunities provided by a sprawl-shot.

“What’s wrong?” Helena asked. “Is the animal dangerous?” She put a hand on Alex’s arm and tried to pull him away from the creature.

“No, no, they’re harmless,” Jerith said, scooping up the little beast with a sweep of his hand. He cradled it against his chest and began stroking it the way you’d pet a hamster. “I call them parrots.”

“It doesn’t look like a parrot,” our songwriter Roland said. “More like a lizard.”

“It’s brightly colored like a parrot,” Jerith answered. “Anyway, the point is, everyone should leave them alone.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt it,” Alex said in a wounded tone.

“You never know,” Jerith told him. “Earth food can be poisonous to aliens. The tiniest nibble might kill this little guy.”

“Polly doesn’t want a cracker,” Roland smirked to Alex.

“And even if Polly does, we have work to do,” Helena said briskly, “Come along, Alex. Recording time.”

“Can I pet the parrot for a sec?” Alex asked, reaching out his fingers. Jerith shied away and Helena grabbed Alex’s arm with both hands.

“We’re going to work now,” she said, “and I mean right now. Jerith, take that animal away. Roland, get off the set. Alex, I want the Singer, and no more putting it off. You aren’t fooling anyone with these delaying tactics; I want the Singer now.”

She turned her back on him and marched to the control console. The console operator quickly shut off his book and tried to look busy. Helena glared but said nothing.

Back in front of the tank, Jerith turned to walk away, still caressing the parrot. Roland patted Alex on the back, said, “Break a leg,” and sauntered toward the control console too.