The Terran whips a condensed chord enunciator out of a vest pocket and sets it to "Antique 12-String" modality. activated by the rhythm of his fingertips across one edge, it generates the sound of a full scale Gibson 12-string from an era long gone, in whcih the Terran spends much itme in theholodeck. Waving his brew with the other hand (ah, modern conveniences) he sings his favorite antique love song:

"Oh, my true love is an ordinary thing
You'd know her any where,
By her pink antennae and her polka dot skin
And the twenty-three dimples on her chinny chin chin
And the hydrogen sulfide in her hair!

Oh me darlin,
How I miss you!
I never needed you so much
'Til I lost your
Crimson eyelids
And the scales I love to touch!
Yourmy cosmic
Little sweetheart
And your thought waves are the most
Sending waves if amourous thunder
Up and down the Martian coast! Oh..."

He stops suddenly, his att ention riveted to a huge form materializing on the forward view screen.