Jukebox

The music washed over him, soaked into his ears and the corners of his eyes, nudged his lips open and slid across his tongue and down his throat. There were wavering drones and percussive noises and phasing patterns all mixed with field recordings from some alien environment. He’d never heard anything like it. Eventually he realized he was also experiencing strong, but somehow unfamiliar emotions. He pulled one earcup off and said, “Why do I feel… I’m not sure. Like I’m home, and tired, but satisfied?”

“There is a telepathic component.” The alien said. “The specific results depends on compatibility with your nervous system; yours is sufficiently similar to ours that it should translate well. This particular entry is a meditation on Rithk, the ceremonial end of our migratory season.”

“Wonderful.” He pulled the headset off, laid it in his lap. “How much?”

“For the complete Gwainisch library, and six headsets: one hundred Polixaci credits. We also have a selection of add-on libraries from other systems. Thirty credits each.” It held up a long, blue, nail-less finger. “We don’t guarantee compatibility for those.”

It was a small fortune, but his clientele would pay through the nose for this. “Play another.”