"Earth years," the whiskers explained. "Three Earth years. Not Pluto years."
A thing that chattered came out of the shadows in one corner of the hut and leaped upon the bed. It hunched itself beside the man and stared leeringly at West, its mouth a slit that drooled across its face, its puckered hide a horror in the sickly light.
"Meet Annabelle," said the man. He whistled at the thing and it clambered to his shoulder, cuddling against his cheek.
West shivered at the sight.
"Just passing through?" the man inquired.
"My name is West," West told him. "Heading for Pluto."
"Ask them to show you the painting," said the man. "Yes, you must see the painting."
"The painting?"
"You deaf?" asked the man, belligerently. "I said a painting. You understand—a picture."