The Marseilles siblings stood out like peacocks at a funeral as they waited for their Spanish liaison to arrive. Had one strained his eyes, one would also have noticed a third man, a tall and thin Neptunian dressed as plain and bleak as the harsh landscape. His name was Akhhiikh and he was the guide and protector of the French travelers, in the sense that he was handsomely paid not to murder them during their stay in his clan’s valley.

“My dear Jean,” Jean said, rekindling a point that the two had already discussed several times since their previous meeting with their benefactor, “when describing our dear patron, perhaps you should have dwelt less on his choice of costumes and perfume, and more on the fact he was a gigantic alien entity from the horror vacui.”

“But my dear Jean,” Jean countered, “I was traumatized by the clash of colors—so gaudy, so tasteless, so offensive to the eye. I had to share the impressions with a person of discriminating taste or else I would have burst.”

“I do not fault you on this, dear Jean, but had I known that the gentlemen and his associates were more than five meters high each, I would have made different preparations for the trip.”

“Yes, I do see my omission now and I am terribly sorry for causing you such distress. I had assumed the size of the denizens of the horror vacui was common knowledge and did not require exposition. Now I see my folly.”

Jean didn’t look at Jean. Instead, the young French dilettante looked intently at the sky, trying to pierce the eternal overcast to spot an oncoming ship.

“Even in retreat you sting, dear Jean, and damn me with faint praise. Someday, I will surely poison you.” The other Jean did not seem interested in stars and ships, instead running numbers and figures on an overly elaborate flexipad.

“I’m sure we’ll explore this prospect to the fullest in the fullness of time, my lovely Jean.”

The Neptunian pointed at the sky and said “she is here” in a language which sounded like Norwegian spoken by a man with a mouthful of snow. Jean gave him a toxic look, angered that this savage spotted the shuttle before the erudite European.

“Speaking of poison,” Jean said, noticing the other Jean was still wholly involved with the flexipad. “I do believe the lovely and talented Mariana has arrived. It would be such a relief to see a human face at last, and one so comely at that.”

“Why, I do believe you’re correct, dear Jean. One wonders how one can be correct in so much and yet so wrong oneself.” Jean rolled the flexipad and shoved it into an intricately decorated sleeve.

“One wonders if one is speaking about oneself or about one’s interlocutor,” the other Jean said, activating a beacon sewn into the Frenchman’s lapel.

“One does indeed!” Jean clicked a miniature remote controller and waved a dainty arm. The siblings’ luggage levitated to about a meter above the ground and followed the siblings with a melodious hum.

“Where is the other half of my payment?” the Neptunian asked, gruffly placing a heavy hand on Jean’s shoulder.

“It’s already in your bloodstream,” Jean said nonchalantly and brushed the huge man’s hand away from his shoulder.

“Huh?” the Neptunian asked.

“Would you please stop sounding stupid and just die?” Jean said.

The Neptunian looked thoughtful for a moment and then collapsed and started flopping about like a fish out of water.

“I am not sure this was prudent,” Jean said. “His clan mates may cause trouble in the future.”

The moment she finished her sentence, the ground shook and a portion of the landscape collapsed in on itself. Smoke and debris rose from the cracks and were carried across the horizon by howling winds.

“I strongly doubt it, my dear,” Jean said.

Mariana raised the light switch and said in flawless French, “We have arrived. The environment outside is extremely hostile, so make sure to check and double-check your spacesuits at every opportunity. This may save your life.”

“Such concern for an employer’s life,” Jean said. “It makes an already formidable beauty bloom like a supernova in winter.”

The pilot blushed and smiled shyly. Then her eyes widened, and she contorted in a manner that would have invoked the envy of the world’s greatest gymnast, had she not cracked so many bones in the process. Her sharp motions were accompanied by a sound like popping balloons until at last she’d reached a crescendo, sighed audibly, and slumped on the floor in a relaxed position.

“Such crude metaphors and tasteless rhymes,” Jean said. “It is a good thing there are no living witnesses to this embarrassment. Supernova in winter? Bah!”

“But my dear Jean, there are never any witnesses, neither to our triumphs, nor our defeats.” Jean looked down at the body on the floor.

“What a lovely sight this one makes. I wonder if our Austrian paramour would care to purchase this one for his collection?” Jean asked, examining the dead woman appreciatively. Most Austrians of taste and style had dead, or nearly dead, people in their cellars, but the Austrian in question had perhaps the best collection in Europe. It would have been a renowned museum had the price of admission not included a significant chance of never coming out. However, the Jeans maintained amiable relations with the Austrian through a shared love of lovely things, and a mutual exchange of poisons and antidotes, peppered with gold and blackmail. The three have never missed a chance to meet. Their lives literally depended on it.

“Jean, my dear, why must you dirty your knees by searching pennies on the ground while heading towards the sultan’s treasure?”

“I am greedy, my dear. One of us has to be the reasonable party, is it not so?”

A delegation of beings so alien their appearance confused the eyes stood broodingly outside the improvised landing pad. One of them raised a rock with one flat side. It read “Welcome to Sinii B” in English.

“Well,” Jean grinned, “let us make history.”