Mort raised his hand, threw a glance at Eddie, and said: "How about, 'this tri-pedal blob of orange protoplasm, octopus like in its gropings—'"
"That's better," Carner said. "Tri-pedal is very nice, very exact. But must you compare it to an octopus?"
"Why not?" Mort asked.
"An octopus," the professor said, "is a well-known form of Earth life. It inspires no terror, no wonder. You might better compare the Threngener to another strange monster; a Callistan Eddel-splayer, for example." He smiled winningly at the class.
Eddie frowned and scratched his blonde crewcut. He had liked it better the first way. But Carner should know, of course. He was one of the best-known writers in the entire field, and he had done the college a favor by agreeing to teach the course. Eddie remembered reading some of Carner's stuff. It had scared the living daylights out of him when he was younger. That description of Saturnian brains immobilizing Earth-confederation ships, for example. That had been a great yarn.
The trouble is, Eddie thought, I'm just not interested. He had had serious doubts about this course. Actually, he had signed up only because Mort had insisted.
"Any questions at this point?" Carner asked. One of the students—a serious-looking fellow wearing black horn-rimmed glasses—raised his hand.
"Suppose," he asked, "suppose you were writing a story speculating on an interstellar combine formed with the purpose of taking over Earth? Would it be permissible, for greater contrast, to make Earth's enemies black-hearted villains?"
A political thinker, Eddie thought with a sneer. He glanced hopefully at the clock.