Dangerous Stuff The cryoship reached a new star system, initiated warming; the crew, not waking from millennia of dream, thought they traversed a rind of icy lumps, imagined a ringed world, other planets, a belt of rocks. Planet 3's simulated biosphere effluviated, radio-frequensated; tiny robots probed its neighborhood; natives built objects detectable from space. The species made a nuisance of itself, boarded the pitted cylinder; unnoticed by the gaunt sim-locked crew, twitching and mumbling in sim-sleep death spiral; the away team explorated. An avatar approached: the natives' manipulatory appendages shifted grips on projectilators, collimated beamers, detectionators-- this android or cyborg could see them! “now hiring,” the ship-brain said, speaking through its faux humanoid rep, “see galaxy, meet life forms.” a pause; in the next room, a skeleton crew nodded, dreamed of Contact. “Benefits?” a native asked.