He was a little guy: five-two, five-three. His mouth was too wide to fit his face and he didn’t have any hair. He sat with his legs neatly crossed on a deal crate and I could see his dirty woollen ankle-socks.
I don’t know, I said.
Johnny nudged me. Sure he is, he said.
I shook my head and said it again: Johnny, I don’t know.
The little guy was watching us. He seemed interested.
Sure he is.
I don’t know, I said. I mean he doesn’t look like a Martian.
Sure he does.
Sherrit nek hazzer minny most, the Martian said.
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