He calls me every time he wants to talk.
“Hello, Stas,” he says. “Can we talk? Can we?”
The allotted communication time is four hours a day, but he never sticks to the schedule. He doesn’t recognize it. He calls me when I sleep, when I sit in a bathtub, when I write reports, when I prepare for another conversation with him, when I help guys taking apart the Wanderers’ sentry satellite… I am not angry. You can’t be angry with him.
“Hello, The Little One,” I reply. “Of course, let’s talk.”
He squints, as if with pleasure, and asks his standard question,
“Are you real now, Stas? Or is it your image?”
I assure him that it is I, Stas Popov, in person and no images are involved. Many times I have explained to him that I cannot build images, and he must have understood it a long time ago, b
