He was a reporter from Venus with an assignment on Earth. He got his story but, against orders, he fell in love—and therein lies this story.
Now, she looked up. "Crazy talk. You're no New Yorker, Freddy lad. You're a Middle Westerner; you can't fool me. Fresh from the farm and craving cow's milk."
"I never saw a cow in my life," I told her truthfully, "though I've heard about them. What makes you think I'm from a farm?"
"Your freshness, your complexion and--everything about you."
The waitress brought our food, then, and I didn't answer. I tried to keep my eyes away from Jean as I ate; I had a mission, here, and no time for attachments beyond the casual. I was sure, even then, that loving Jean Decker would never qualify as casual.
She drank her coffee and smoked; I ate.
She asked, "Where are you staying, in town, Fred? I'm sober enough to drive, now."
"I'll get public transportation," I said. "You get home, and to bed."
She laughed. "Public transportation? Freddy, you don't know this town. There isn't any. Did you just get here, tonight?"
I looked at her, and nodded.
"On the bum?" sh
A not-very-profound short story of a man (humanoid alien) sent to Earth to investigate what motivates us and whether we are safe to let into space. He falls in love and marries a rich girl (so he must be very humanoid) and pretty much concludes his assignment. The story rings false, in that, if they had Ambrose Bierce, they had all the information they needed.
Not original or inspiring.
