Once the table was up and the spread was set, Roland and Jim sat down to watch the last rays of sunrise turn into boring old daylight. A lackey handed them both steaming mugs of coffee. Roland took his black and Turkish, so thick it was almost pudding. Most humans made it too weak for his taste, but this cup was perfect. He sipped deeply, and the warbly acid-lines straightened and grew just a little bit thicker.

“It took forever to teach them how to make it right,” Jim said. “Having human orderlies is a bit of a trial. I think there’s something about us that breaks their brains, just a bit.” Jim sipped his coffee and added, “I got a theory about that, by the way.”

Roland let out a harsh, phlegmy exhalation that meant, “I don’t care.” Jim continued all the same, sipping his coffee and then launching into a spiel.

“My theory,” he said, “is that Homo sapiens just aren’t built to acknowledge a higher form of life. Not one that’s flesh and blood and staring them in the face demanding service. I think deep in the human brain there’s the race memory of running up against Neanderthals. They were bigger and stronger and faster than humans. But we...they still wiped the Neanderthals out. I think humans look at us the same way their ancestors looked at Neanderthals.”

Roland grunted, because that was easier than talking, and because he really wasn’t listening. His eyes were focused on the shimmering surface of the coffee. Sober, his brain kept his thermal vision on a different mental track from his color and infrared vision. But while he was tripping they all sorta bled together into one multi-tone mass of information. So he stared, enthralled, as red heat bled off into the white air around them. The math of it all was rendered as a beautiful swatch of colors, some of which weren’t even visible to human eyes. Roland lost himself for a moment.

“If you were any other man I’d prick you with a sober stick right now,” Jim said, clearly irked. “It’s been a long time since someone’s ignored me.”

“Not ignoring,” Roland managed to say. The words came out wet and mushy. He’d taken a round to the lung apparently, and the repair efforts played hell on his throat. His eyes were still locked on the psychedelic sprawl of color lifting off from his coffee. He had to force himself to take another sip. The mild stimulant surge helped him break off his perseveration and he met Jim’s still weirdly solid gaze.

“Sorry, but this coffee’s more interesting than your bullshit,” Roland explained. “Blame the acid.”