Preston Dwight Quinch (PDQ complains his wife) was a mid-level bureaucrat for the Interstellar Ministry of Weights, Measures and Minor Inconveniences. He sat in a lounge aboard Space Station Omicron-9, sweating through his polyester-blend suit.

Opposite him was High-Exarch Xylth-Gloon of the Gaseous Hegemony. The Exarch resembled a violet jellyfish floating in a tank of pressurized methane.

“You humans have a long history of bartering with baubles in return for valuable items,” the Exarch’s universal translator chirped in a dry, British accent. “The Hegemony finds your offer of surplus copper wiring offensive. We require something of spiritual resonance. Something that tastes of the colour yellow.”

Preston nervously adjusted his glasses.

“Exarch, with all due respect, Earth’s supply of ‘yellow-tasting resonance’ is currently tied up in probate court. However, I can offer you three metric tons of slightly dented industrial-grade paper clips.”

The Exarch pulsed a violent shade........

© Peterborough Examiner