The main street had played up to the Blind Lake theme with more gusto than taste. The two-story brick commercial buildings appeared to date from the middle of the last century, yellow brick pressed from local river-bottom clay, and they might have been attractive if not for the wave of hucksterism that had overtaken them. The “lobster” theme was everywhere, inevitably. Lobster plush toys, holographic lobster window displays, lobster posters, lobster cocktail napkins, ceramic garden lobsters…

Elaine followed his gaze and guessed his thought. “You should have had dinner at the Mariott,” she said. “Lobster fucking bisque.”

He shrugged. “It’s only people trying to make a buck, support their families.”

“Cashing in on ignorance. I really don’t get this whole lobster thing. They don’t look anything at all like lobsters. They don’t have an exoskeleton and God knows they don’t have an ocean to swim around in.”

“People have to call them something.”

“People may have to call them something, but do they have to paint them onto neckties?”

The Blind Lake work had been massively vulgarized, undeniably so. But what bothered Elaine, Chris believed, was the suspicion that somewhere among the nearer stars some reciprocal act might be taking place. Plastic caricatures of human beings lolling behind glazed windows under an alien sun. Her own face, perhaps, imprinted on a souvenir mug from which unimaginable creatures sipped mysterious liquids.

The van was a dusty blue electric vehicle that had been sent from Blind Lake. The driver didn’t seem to want to talk but might be listening, Chris thought, trying to feel out their “positions” — the public relations office doing a little undercover work. Conversation was awkward, therefore.