The stars are veiled tonight, as if ashamed at their unwitting collusion. Streetlights remain unlit, not a lamp shines from a single window. It is the hour of curfew. I creep along the back streets, through alleys, behind gardens and beside fences. My eyes are accustomed now; what little glow comes from the military compounds and searchlights reflecting from the low clouds is sufficient. Besides, I know these roads, this town. I grew up here. We had received their radio signals two years before; spent months deciphering them, translating their language, composing replies. Their spaceships, as big as cities, hovered far above our farms and valleys with gunports closed.
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