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He turned, took a deep breath, and walked woodenly toward the bar. He wanted to tap her on her smooth shoulder and ask who she was, and exactly what she was, and point out the cold irony of the fact that it was he, Coretti, the Martian dresser, he eavesdropper, the outsider, the one whose clothes and conversation never fit, who had at last guessed their secret.
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As is the case with so many experimental, unproven projects, their funding was of a low priority, came out of 'petty cash'. The upkeep of their offices was therefore far and away top of the list where costing was concerned, but that was unavoidable.
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One question on my mind, said a woman--not one of the Russians--from her chair, is this how do we go about making contact with it? By radio, I should think, Cavendish answered.
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