The Blonde Plutoz stared at the lifeless figure slumped over the desk.
"Don't tell me he's dead," Rivqua whispered. "That'd be all we need."
"Mister Bing?" Zana tried, unfamiliar caution and respect straining in her voice. "We're here. The Blonde Plutoz. We've arrived. Half an hour late but- and we're sorry about that but it's only because we were stopped by the police, for flying below the traffic radar. There was some minor issue with our speed as well."
The large alien remained still, arms sprawled out, face resting peacefully on mounds of paperwork.
"Perhaps he's just tired," Rivqua said. "Overworked. He runs the biggest hotel on the strip, after all. That'll take it out of you."
"We got off with a warning," Zana carried on, taking a step closer. "That made us feel almost welcome. They settled for our autographs which, and I mean this from the bottom of our wallet- I mean heart, is an impressive credit to the Toss Vague-Ass skyway patrol."
"Unnecessary information, Zana."
"Do you think he's dead?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Perhaps he's had a heart attack."
"Or a massive lunch. Why don't you feel his pulse?"
"Too personal. He doesn't know us yet, or know we're here."
"Right now he's not knowing anybody, or anything."
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