He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet bus and his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck his head against the bottom of the shelf above. "Awfully inconvenient arrangement here," he commented. "Wonder why they don't have seats."
"Because this arrangement," Carpenter said stiffly, "is the one that has proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms."
"Oh, I see," Michael murmured. "I didn't get a look at the other passengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?"
"Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?"
A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thought it arose from defective jets.
"Oh, yes!" he agreed. "And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad."
"Sirians are always sad," the salesman told him. "Listen."
Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough, he could make out words: "Our wings were unfurled in a far distant world, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, will we see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius...."
Carpenter brushed away a tear. "Poignant, isn't it?"