I raised my hand. A wide length of carefully dyed fabric segmented by plastic spines snapped open above me, held up by Gertrude Hunt’s tendrils. I went through the folding and snapping sequence, assuring everyone that currents were calm and free of predators. We would have to rely on the communication screens for anything more complicated but greeting species in their own manner tended to calm them. It was a small gesture that went a long way.

The oomboles quivered, slowing to a somewhat calmer frenzy.

I took them to their suite, which consisted of a constellation of tanks connected by narrow channels. The largest tank was the size of an Olympic pool, complete with plants, corals, and custom lighting. The oomboles entered it, immediately formed a school around the spouse candidate, a spectacular orange specimen, and the fins stopped flashing.

The Donkamins were next. I braced myself.

For visually evolved species, sight was crucial. We evaluated everything, from the suitability of a potential mate to our offspring’s health, by eye. We noted the skin tone, the condition of the eyes, the sparsity or fullness of hair just so we wouldn’t miss that someone was deathly ill and would be able to avoid them in time or administer medical treatment. We made millions of assessments unconsciously during our lives, examining each other, our pets, and other animals, because fearing a rabid dog foaming at the mouth saved our lives.

Unfortunately, our perception was flawed. Our eyes had difficulties distinguishing between minor skin ailments, like ringworm, and a plague. Every year hundreds of people thought they saw a monster instead of a mangy coyote. Things that were just different enough often freaked us out, because when our rudimentary biological brain had no frame of reference, it interpreted everything as danger just to be on the safe side.

Donkamins tripped every human visual alarm sensor in existence. A relative newcomer to the interstellar scene, they were aggressively trying to expand and grab their own slice of galactic real estate. The first of their species had visited Earth roughly 200 years ago. An innkeeper urban legend said that the first innkeeper who opened the door to them took one look and blurted out, “Don’t come in!” which was how they got their nickname.

The light within the portal spun. Twenty-one Donkamins entered the arrival chamber in an orderly procession. They were eight feet tall, hairless, covered with pale pearlescent skin, and unmistakably humanoid, although they were not even mammalian. Their tall, thin bodies stood upright on two appendages that resembled legs. Their shoulders sloped very sharply down, as if their clavicles had been broken, and just kind of dangled there. They had two upper limbs, long and reasonably arm-like, and two hands with seven very bony long fingers without fingernails. Their round heads sat on seemingly human necks.

I glanced at Sean. He had gone still like a statue.