Michael Swanwick The avicephalus walked into the bar, its frill ruffled and its beak clacking, the way they do when they’re spoiling for a fight. It acted like it owned the place. Which it didn’t. Not literally. But we both knew what the score was.
I smiled blandly. “What’ll you have?”
“Gimme a Singapore sling, ape face.” The avicephalus went over to the aquarium, eyed its contents skeptically, and then speared a neon tetra. The strike was so fast it barely made a splash. It threw back its head and swallowed. “Not much of a selection,” it grumbled.
“Mostly, they’re just decorative.”
The avicephalus took a stool. Their bodies were enough like ours that they could do that.
I finished mixing the drink and set it down in front of the alien. Then I glanced at the clock. 9:57 a.m. Avicephali were early drinkers. This one drank down the first glass in a single gulp. “Another.”
I made a second drink, set it down. Taking a chance, I said, “That’ll be twelve bucks. No charge for the fish.”
The avicephalus drew itself up, outraged. Its frill narrowed and lay down low on its head, the way they do just before they strike. It fixed me with those crazy orange eyes. “Do I look like a fool, monkey nose? Do I look like somebody who thinks we conquered this backwater planet just so I can take lip from some hick hominid bartender?”
“No, sir,” I said. Everybody knew that arguing with an alien was a good way to lose an eye. It was 9:59 now.
“Damn straight, I don’t. So from now on I expect you to—why do you keep looking at the time?”
“For that,” I said. It was 10:00 on the dot.
Outside, a bright light blossomed. It was the Planetary Control HQ going up.
While the avicephalus gawked, unable to process the extent of the changes that had just occurred, I put the lid over the fish tank. No more free lunch for this guy.
Then I smiled, not at all blandly. “Last drink, bird head.”
. . .
