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fact, the ineffable Auyars are investigating a project to achieve hybridization (artificially, at least at first) between non-humanoid races and terrestrial genes. Though the project is still in its experimental phase, they have already received thousands of requests for human-Colossaur mestizos, grodo-human mestizos, and other, yet more exotic combinations.
    The Planetary Tourism Agency’s only concern is the high risk of the “human” factor in their investment. The psychological stability of hybrids is abnormally low. Despite all efforts to the contrary, it appears that the predisposition of mestizos toward depression, neurosis, and other psychic complaints remains very high, though the relevant statistics are kept secret.
    Some social psychologists hypothesize that the very sense of non-integration, of uprootedness, of having one foot in each camp, of not belonging, the very identity crisis that makes hybrids seek a solitary refuge in art, is also responsible for the fact that they have the highest suicide rate and the lowest life expectancy of any known “human” group.
    Nevertheless, the Planetary Tourism Agency is conducting encouraging studies on the subcortical implantation of suicide blockers, similar to the blockers that xenoids implant in all humans who travel beyond Earth to prevent them from revealing what they’ve seen when they return.
    Some behavioral specialists doubt the effectiveness of this method and suggest that depriving mestizos of the “relative escape” of suicide could result not only in the total collapse of their own psyches, but might also place their masters or purchasers in great danger. Unable to take their own lives, they might become highly aggressive toward others, seeking death by any means.
    Despite these objections, which really come from a few isolated voices, the Agency is confident that this new technology will eliminate that deplorable problem forever and that it will no longer have to face claims for damages from xenoids who have seen the mestizos they paid so much for destroy themselves, without their being able to do anything about it...

Performing Death
    “Being on top of game today. There being much audience,” Ettubrute said on entering the tent, speaking in the hoarse rattle that was his voice. Then he added, standing next to Moy, who was adjusting the equipment for the umpteenth time, “Not needing more checking... Me having done it two times already.”
    “I’ll be on the top of my game, don’t you worry. And let me make one thing clear: I’ll check it a thousand times if I feel like it; it’s my life on the line—not yours, Bruiser,” Moy grumbled without looking up.
    The Colossaur growled, more out of habit than because he was actually offended. And it was a matter of habit: from the first, it had bothered him a lot every time the human called him Bruiser.
    By the standards of his race, Ettubrute was small and weak. That’s why he’d become an art agent. Like all professions that don’t call for physical strength, dexterity, or aggression, the art business was held in low esteem by the natives of Colossa. The only honorable, ideal jobs for a “normal” Colossaur were bodyguard, law enforcement officer, or soldier. Ettubrute was a poor oddball, to his fellows.
    The funny part was that Moy didn’t call him Bruiser to mock him. The “weak” Colossaur who was his agent had a natural armor of bony reddish plates that few weapons could penetrate, and he stood nearly ten feet tall by five wide. Maybe he was a yard short and a hundred pounds too light to be normal-sized for his race... but he was way more than strong enough to beat any human into a pulp with a single blow from his arm, as thick as Moy’s thigh.
    “Being better if all turning out better today than ever. If you failing, contract ending.” The Colossaur made a threatening gesture with his enormous tridactyl hand. “Not even earning returning ticket.” He turned and stalked out so