"And the interior is so dainty!" the creature warbled. "Chenille curtains over the ports! Pastel wallflower paper! Furnishings of a luxuriance that would be of pleasure even to the dictator himself!"
Hawthorne spat disgustedly. "Pastel wallpaper! Chenille curtains! Who ever heard of curtains in a space ship, much less chenille!"
His homely face twisted in pain. "Chenille!" he groaned again.
"You have no soul," grinned O'Dea. "As long as these baboons are willing to supply us with the finer things of life, you might at least appreciate it."
"You know what I think of you," growled Hawthorne. "Chenille curtains—ugh!"
He spat disgustedly.
Morguma appeared and waved them to the open lock. He preceded them, and when they had mounted to the lock, he shoved them back gently with his huge paws until they faced a barrage of Centaur camera fiends. The three of them, Morguma in the middle with a giant smirking grin, stood framed in the lock while shutters clicked.
"I wish you wouldn't breathe in my face," O'Dea said. "You smell like something that forgot to die off in the Mesozoic era."
Morguma giggled. "All Centauri loves you! Your beautiful faces will be in all our newspapers now!"
They went into the control room. Hawthorne stared unbelievingly at the transformation. Flowers were spread profusely. Embroidered antimacassars graced the dainty chairs. And the curtains over the ports were indeed of chenille. The pilot groaned dismally.