"Exactly," said the box, while the bronze one hummed.
"Amazing," murmured Myra. "This should take the place of the self-lighting cigarette. Speaking of which, how about one? We'll be burning up Peach's air, not ours."
"I think we both need one," said Steve. He handed her one, popped one in his own mouth. After looking in vain for a mouth on Peachy, he put the pack back in his pocket. They puffed, and smoke curled from the glow that was suddenly at the end.
Peachy looked at them curiously.
"First," he said, "my name isn't Peachy. It's WalmearFgon. Secondly, what are those?"
"Wal...." Steve made a face. "We'll let it go at Peachy. Secondly, these are cigarettes. Also known as smokes, fags, the White Menace and coffin-nails. They stain your fingers, befoul the atmosphere, use up oxygen, give you bad breath and shorten your life-span."
"Then why do you use them?"
Steve shrugged. "I save coupons."
Peachy looked blank. But then Peachy had no way of looking otherwise, so Myra said:
"Where do you come from?"