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The Heights Larry Niven Clickety-ponk came waftin' down the magnetic fields above Siberia in winter of 2041, the fourteenth chirpsithra liner to visit Earth in twenty-three years. My translator says that Clickety-ponk is a pun that means weary light or weary from mating. The vast soap bubble of a ship carried forty-one individuals of eight sapient species, five of them unknown to me. All strangers, of course. We'll not see the same liner twice in the same millenium. One pair, called Warblers, looked like featherless birds. They spent a Tuesday making an aerie just under my ceiling. Tuesday night they sang for us, a concert attended by all the ship's wild variety of crew and passengers. We weren't expected to serve their drinks too, because the Warblers wanted us in the audience; but the seating! The Draco Tavern isn't designed as a concert hall. But the birds were good! They held us rapt. They didn't need microphones
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