‘Ya don't go there, ya don't fight ‘em, and ya sure as Hell don't Mate with ‘em,’ spat the sailor. An old shipmate of Johnny's from overseas had landed himself in the hospital. ‘Diagnosed as ‘an old man sputterin’ nonsense,’’ he shouted at the nurse trying to enter Johnny's room. The door closed quickly, and a hermetic seal Sally had installed the year previously breathed shut with a pucker. The old sailor continued, ‘I went over- was told I'd had relatives overseas, a big genealogy hullabaloo - ‘come meet yer new relatives!’ they said to me, they did.’ He leaned in closer, ‘They ain't nothin’ but puppets. They'll look human, they'll talk human - but watch 'em, Johnny - they ain't human.’
‘A lure?,’ Johnny grunted. His trachea had begun to heal, and he could whisper a word or two if the occasion warranted.
‘A lure,’ the old man nodded. ‘Meant to divide, create confusion, reveal our resources and motivations. Puppets.’