"Rubbing alcohol, then. Only a touch on my mouth. Drop it in my eye if you wish," said the thing pitifully.
"No—hey, wait a second. You told me your breed doesn't eat or drink. You don't need any outside element. Why the alcohol?"
It heaved what was possibly a sigh. "I can absorb certain portions of the carbon atoms of al-kuhl," it said. "It is the greatest pleasure known to my race. And, save for the paltry drops of gin in that bottle yesterday, I have not—let us say 'tasted'—it for some hundreds of years!"
"Al-kuhl?" repeated Pinkham.
"The Arabic slips easily from my tongue after all those years," said the thing, half to itself.
Arabic! "You weren't lying," said Pink, "when you told us you came from Earth, then."
"I was not lying. Give me some alcohol, Captain."
"No. How do I know it won't revive you?"
"My word on it."
Pink gave the hardest and briefest bark of laughter ever heard on the spaceways. It became silent. Finally he leaned forward to stare at it. "Your eyes have faded," he said. "By God, I think you aren't paralyzed. I think you're dying!"