Omni, April 1991.
``They're made out of meat.''
``Meat?''
``Meat. They're made out of meat.''
``Meat?''
``There's no doubt about it. We picked several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, probed them all the way through. They're completely meat.''
``That's impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars.''
``They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don't come from them. The signals come from machines.''
``So who made the machines? That's who we want to contact.''
``They made the machines. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Meat made the machines.''
``That's ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You're asking me to believe in sentient meat.''
``I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. These creatures are the only sentient race in the sector and they're made out of meat.''
``Maybe they're like the Orfolei. You know, a carbon-based intelligence that goes through a meat stage.''
``Nope. They're born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of their life spans, which didn't take too long. Do you have any idea the life span of meat?''
``Spare me. Okay, maybe they're only part meat. You know, like the Weddilei. A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside.''
``Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads like the Weddilei. But I told you, we probed them. They're meat all the way through.''
``No brain?''
``Oh, there is a brain all right. It's just that the brain is made out of meat!''
``So... what does the thinking?''
``You're not understanding, are you? The brain does the thinking. The meat.''
``Thinking meat! You're asking me to believe in thinking meat!''
``Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat. The meat is the whole deal! Are you getting the picture?''
``Omigod. You're serious then. They're made out of meat.''
``Finally, yes. They are indeed made out meat. And they've been trying to get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their years.''
``So what does the meat have in mind.''
``First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore the universe, contact other sentients, swap ideas and information. The usual.''
``We're supposed to talk to meat?''
``That's the idea. That's the message they're sending out by radio. `Hello. Anyone out there? Anyone home?' That sort of thing.''
``They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?''
``Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat.''
``I thought you just told me they used radio.''
``They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You know how when you slap or flap meat it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat.''
``Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?''
``Officially or unofficially?''
``Both.''
``Officially, we are required to contact, welcome, and log in any and all sentient races or multibeings in the quadrant, without prejudice, fear, or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing.''
``I was hoping you would say that.''
``It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make contact with meat?''
``I agree one hundred percent. What's there to say? `Hello, meat. How's it going?' But will this work? How many planets are we dealing with here?''
``Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat containers, but they can't live on them. And being meat, they only travel through C space. Which limits them to the speed of light and makes the possibility of their ever making contact pretty slim. Infinitesimal, in fact.''
``So we just pretend there's no one home in the universe.''
``That's it.''
``Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the ones who have been aboard our vessels, the ones you have probed? You're sure they won't remember?''
``They'll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their heads and smoothed out their meat so that we're just a dream to them.''
``A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat's dream.''
``And we can mark this sector unoccupied.''
``Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Anyone interesting on that side of the galaxy?''
``Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen core cluster intelligence in a class nine star in G445 zone. Was in contact two galactic rotations ago, wants to be friendly again.''
``They always come around.''
``And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the universe would be if one were all alone.''