It was the kind of day that could only happen in Stockholm, which was, of course, the sort of city that managed to make you feel like you’d been transported to another dimension; only in this case, it wasn’t a particularly exciting one. The weather was following its usual script: drizzle, pause, drizzle again, just to keep you on your toes. The clouds, as clouds are wont to do when left to their own devices, gathered in deep, philosophical contemplation, as though debating whether humans might ever discover life beyond their little blue dot. Spoiler alert: they were going to meet one today. In a lecture hall. During lunch break. How inconvenient.
Professor Hanna Fischer was lecturing on the Fermi Paradox that rather nagging question of why, after countless billions of stars and planets, humanity had yet to encounter a single alien. She loved this topic, not least because it meant she could say phrases like, "And of course, the chances of intelligent life in the galaxy are so statistically improbable that it’s akin to winning the lottery while being struck by lightning on the same day," and see how many students she could get to write it down before they realized they were scribbling something that made absolutely no sense.
Her students, a collection of sleep-deprived overachievers, dutifully took notes, their pens dancing in the air like drunken satellites, while silently wondering if they’d ever be able to convince their parents that studying the cosmos was a legitimate career. But their thoughts soon drifted to more important matters, like whether they’d get the chance to finally ask: "Professor Fischer, do aliens like pizza? Or is that a human-only phenomenon?"
Professor Fischer, who was under no illusions about the intellectual depth of the question, secretly hoped someone might ask it, if only to have an excuse to deviate from the relentless numbers and equations for just a moment. However, in a cruel twist of fate, it wasn’t the pizza question that was to be asked today. It was something much more unexpected, and possibly less savoury.
"Excuse me, Professor," said a voice from the back, which didn’t quite sound like any of her usual students. It was a voice that, if she were to analyze it in a strictly scientific way, could only be described as… alien.
Professor Fischer paused mid-sentence and looked up from her chalkboard, not entirely sure if she was hallucinating from the caffeine or just about to become an unwilling participant in the kind of absurdity that regularly plagued academic life. "Yes?" she said cautiously.
The student, who was now standing and whose rather dishevelled appearance suggested he’d spent the better part of the last five hours in a poorly-lit café reading obscure philosophical treatises, raised a hand. "I need to speak with you. Privately. After class."
A small wave of confusion washed over the room, but as any experienced lecturer would know, this wasn’t an unusual request. Students, after all, had all kinds of interesting excuses for why they couldn’t attend office hours, ranging from "my pet iguana is sick" to "I think I’ve discovered a new element on the periodic table and need your guidance."
But as the student made his way toward the front of the room, something told Professor Fischer that this wasn’t going to be one of those mundane post-class conversations about overdue papers. No, this would be different. She could feel it. Probably because the student’s eyes glowed faintly, and his neck was bending in angles that human anatomy just shouldn’t allow.
"Right," Professor Fischer said, putting her chalk down and trying to look unfazed, "let’s have this chat. I’ll just grab my..."
"Yes, yes," the student interrupted, "but before we get into it, I must confess that I am... not, in fact, from this planet."
Professor Fischer blinked. "Well, that’s certainly one way to start a conversation."
"You see," the student continued, "I am from a distant planet, located in the farthest reaches of the galaxy, beyond the Sable Nebula, where our people have mastered intergalactic travel but still haven't figured out how to fix a decent cup of coffee." He paused dramatically. "My professor sent me here to study your primitive society. Your… barbaric ways, in fact. We’re hoping it might shed light on certain, shall we say, gaps in our own pro-history."
Professor Fischer stood there for a moment, considering the possibilities. She’d had students tell her they were too busy to submit assignments, that their dog ate their homework, even that their internet had been down (which was, frankly, a lie no one had believed since 1998). But she was fairly certain no one had ever introduced themselves as an alien sent to study humanity's culinary habits before.
“Well, then,” she said, recovering quickly, “I suppose we’ll need to discuss your... fieldwork and your conclusions over a cup of something. Possibly something that doesn't involve a deep discussion of pizza. I'm assuming your species hasn't perfected that yet, have you?”
The student, who, incidentally, was named Yor Eska, grinned. “Professor Fischer, you have no idea how close you are.”
I.
Professor Hanna Fischer stood at the front of the lecture hall, her arms flailing enthusiastically as she outlined the vastness of the universe with an assortment of colourful markers. It was the sort of lecture that made you feel both insignificant and oddly superior, like you were being told that no matter how much you fretted about your misplaced keys or whether you'd locked the front door, none of it really mattered in the grand scheme of things. The universe, after all, was expanding at such an alarming rate that by the time you finished worrying about your laundry, it would be somewhere in the next galaxy.
“Now, students, let’s get back to the Fermi Paradox,” Hanna said, pacing in front of the giant projection screen, which displayed a dizzying map of galaxies and clusters, interspersed with the occasional drawing of an alien spaceship that looked suspiciously like an old 1950s diner. “We have billions of stars, billions of planets, and yet ...nothing. No signs of alien life. Which brings us to the all-important question: where are they?”
She paused for dramatic effect. The class leaned forward, most of them pretending to be captivated by the lecture. It was, after all, a critical question for any cosmology student. In a room full of people who had decided their career paths largely on the assumption that they might one day be the ones to discover the answer to this very question, there was a palpable tension in the air.
“It’s like throwing a massive party,” Hanna continued, her hands now gesturing wildly as if she were trying to conduct the cosmos itself. “You’ve sent out the invites. The snacks are prepared. The music’s playing. The space-faring cocktails are chilled, and yet… no one shows up. And don’t even get me started on the awkwardness of finding an excuse when your neighbours pop over and ask why they weren’t invited.”
A ripple of nervous chuckles floated through the room. The kind of chuckles you give when you don’t know whether to laugh or if you’re supposed to take this all incredibly seriously. It was, after all, one of those rare moments where your professor had just compared alien life to a neighbourly barbecue.
“Some theories,” Hanna said, tapping her chalk against the board with great deliberation, “suggest that intelligent life is simply too rare to make contact. Others think we’ve been too busy worrying about our internet speeds to notice them. And some say,” she added, as if this last theory were somehow the most plausible, “that they’re simply avoiding us. Maybe it’s like the galactic version of ‘We can’t come over, we’ve got guests.’”
More chuckles, this time from the braver students, as the tension eased just a little. But it was clear that the students were now thinking about how they would like to meet aliens, or perhaps more importantly, if they could meet one in person without embarrassing themselves.
“Alright, alright, I can see we’re all eager for answers,” Hanna said, turning to face the class. “But, before we go down that rabbit hole of theorizing, any questions? Don’t be shy. You’re all deeply invested in this, right?”
A hand shot up at the back of the room, and for once, it wasn’t from one of the over-achievers in the front row who always had an answer for everything. No, this time it was from a student who hadn’t contributed much, except for the occasional murmured comment about how he was “just trying to survive finals.”
Hanna squinted at the hand. “Yes, you, in the back? What’s your name?”
“Yor,” came the reply. The voice was faintly, oddly, unfamiliar, and it had a strange lilt to it. Sort of like someone trying to blend Swedish with the sound of a malfunctioning microwave.
“Yor, right. What’s your question?” Hanna smiled, assuming the usual was about to unfold, a comment about how much better the universe would be if only we got our collective act together and started sending out more space probes.
Yor stood up slowly, his hands shaking as if he were trying to hold up a very large, invisible weight. The entire class seemed to hold its breath.
“Well,” Yor began, adjusting his hoodie (which suspiciously appeared to be three sizes too big), “actually, I have a question about, well, aliens.”
A silence fell over the room like a heavy curtain. A few students exchanged confused glances, while others checked their phones to see if their phones were, perhaps, simply malfunctioning. After all, no one had actually ever asked that question before, and certainly not in the middle of a lecture where you were supposed to be learning, not contemplating the possibility of extra-terrestrial life.
“Ah!” Hanna beamed, pleased that she had been so right about the whole ‘asking about aliens’ thing. “Of course! It’s what we all want to know about. I’m sure we all want to know, for instance, whether the Martians prefer indie rock over disco, right?”
The students chuckled awkwardly, looking at one another to see if anyone else was going to laugh or if they should just pretend they’d understood the joke.
But Yor wasn’t laughing. No, he was looking intently at the professor, as if preparing to drop the biggest bombshell in the history of Stockholm University.
“I think you should know…” Yor hesitated, his voice lowering to a whisper that seemed somehow both conspiratorial and deeply sincere, “I am… well, an alien.”
There was a long, drawn-out silence. Hanna’s eyebrows shot up so quickly that it looked like they might have gotten stuck under her glasses. She blinked twice. Then three times. Just to be sure. It wasn’t the sort of thing you heard every day. Not even in cosmology lectures.
"An… alien?" she repeated, her voice wavering slightly as she did the mental math to ensure she hadn’t simply misheard. "From, uh… where exactly?"
Yor leaned forward, now speaking in a voice that could have belonged to someone giving a top-secret briefing to a very confused group of people. "Well, I’m from a planet, you see, on the farthest side of the galaxy. Beyond the Sable Nebula. But that’s not important right now. What is important is that my professor sent me here to study your primitive society."
“Primitive?” Hanna asked, a bit taken aback. "You are you sure you’ve got the right species? Because we’ve been working pretty hard on this whole ‘fancy electronics’ thing. We’ve got the iPhone and everything."
Yor nodded sagely. "I’m aware. That’s why you’re the subject of my study, you see. It’s fascinating. You’ve got gadgets, but you still can’t seem to get your act together when it comes to basic social interactions. And honestly,” he added, scratching his chin thoughtfully, “there’s something about your obsession with pizza that’s extremely fascinating to us. It’s as if you’ve created an entire culture based on cheese and bread. Which, quite frankly, we didn’t expect.”
Hanna’s mind was whirring. She had just been told by a student, who had not only arrived late but appeared to have just walked in from the set of an alien B-movie that he was, in fact, an alien.
She did the only thing she could think of in that moment. She threw her hands up, as if surrendering to the inevitable. “Well, I suppose we’d better have a proper chat about your… fieldwork. Come on, let’s head to my office. You can tell me all about your primitive research on pizza.”
As Yor and the professor walked to the office, the students exchanged baffled glances; unsure whether to stay seated or follow. It was, after all, not every day you witnessed a cosmology professor heading off with a student who had just casually confessed to being from a galaxy far, far away.
But then again, it was also Stockholm. And in Stockholm, even the most peculiar things didn’t seem all that strange.
II.
Professor Hanna Fischer had always prided herself on her ability to deal with peculiar students. After all, anyone who decided to pursue cosmology had to have an appetite for the bizarre, be it contemplating black holes, deciphering quantum mechanics, or trying to remember if the laws of physics actually allowed for time travel before your morning coffee. And those were just the normal topics.
But this? This was something new.
Yor Eska, the student standing before her in the half-empty lecture hall, wasn’t the type of eccentric that one could easily chalk up to “being a bit odd.” No, he wasn’t a misplaced theatre major or an overly enthusiastic conspiracy theorist. He wasn’t even the kind of person who’d stand up and start making grandiose speeches about the philosophical implications of black holes, just to get attention. No, Yor Eska had just calmly announced that he was, in fact, an alien from a far-off planet beyond the Sable Nebula.
"Ah," Hanna said, blinking a few times. "I see. Are you, by any chance, also enrolled in the 'Advanced Imaginary Beings' course? I hear it's quite popular this semester. You know, with the whole ‘humans might be the only intelligent life in the universe’ theme. A real crowd-pleaser."
Yor shook his head with earnestness that was difficult to fake. "No, no, Professor Fischer. I assure you, I am not enrolled in any such course. I’m really an alien. From a planet called Za’katik, far across the galaxy, beyond the Sable Nebula, where the air smells faintly of lavender and regret."
“Lavender and regret?” Hanna echoed a touch sceptical. “That’s… interesting. Not exactly what I’d associate with advanced lifeforms. I would’ve gone for something a bit more, I don’t know, fragrant?”
“Well, it’s a complex issue,” Yor said, looking thoroughly serious about the matter. "The regret is mostly from the poor life choices of a very introspective species."
Hanna, who had been listening to students try all manner of excuses to get out of assignments—ranging from the classic “my pet ate my homework” to the more ambitious “the gravitational pull of Jupiter was too strong to finish my research” felt a certain sympathy. This one, though, wasn’t pretending. He was just… rather good at making her wonder if she were actually losing her mind.
“Alright,” she said, placing a hand on her chin, her curiosity piqued. “If you’re from another planet, why are you here? Are you... conducting some kind of experiment on Earth? Because, let me tell you, we’ve tried the ‘aliens visiting Earth’ trope before. And it’s not as exciting as the movies make it look. The Wi-Fi is terrible, and the pizza is a bit overrated.”
Yor, who had been looking at her with a kind of intense fascination that would have made anyone else uncomfortable, finally sighed. “Well, that’s the thing. I’m here on a mission from my professor yes; we have professors on my planet, although they do look remarkably like squishy fungi with monocles. He sent me to Earth to study your society. It’s primitive, of course. We’ve been studying your civilization for a while now. My professor thought that perhaps your rather complicated relationship with food, particularly the way you’ve evolved a whole culture around cheese and bread, might shed light on some of the more confusing aspects of our history. It's very enlightening. Really, it’s almost as if you’re using food as some form of social currency. Quite strange, but in a good way.”
Hanna blinked. This, of course, explained nothing, but she had to admit, it was at least a refreshing change from the usual “I just didn’t understand the lecture” excuse. And there was something about the way Yor spoke, as though the very thought of studying Earth’s food habits was the most logical conclusion to the entire cosmic drama, that made her feel, for a fleeting moment, that maybe she’d stumbled into a different dimension entirely, one where making sense of human life through pizza was just part of the curriculum.
She cleared her throat. “So, let me get this straight. You’re really from another planet. A place where regret is a perfume and food, specifically pizza, holds some sort of cosmic significance. And you’re here to study Earth’s ‘primitive society.’”
“That’s about the gist of it, yes,” Yor replied, nodding earnestly. He then added, as if it were an afterthought, “And don’t get me started on your habit of putting pineapple on pizza. That, my friend, is a mystery we may never solve.”
Hanna raised an eyebrow. “It’s called Hawaiian pizza, and it’s a beloved cultural tradition around here. I wouldn’t go picking at it if I were you.”
Yor smiled, and the smile, though innocent enough, somehow managed to make her feel that it had more layers than a particularly complicated quantum experiment. "I’ll reserve judgment. But you must admit, it’s an interesting experiment in itself."
Hanna, who was starting to feel a little disoriented by this whole situation, did what any seasoned academic would do when faced with the bizarre. She folded her arms, looked at the floor for a moment, and then sighed.
“Alright, alright, so you’re here as a student studying Earth’s ‘primitive’ food habits. But I’ll need a bit more than that if I’m going to take you seriously, Yor. After all, we’re not exactly known for inviting extraterrestrials to sit in on our lectures. We have a rather rigorous protocol for that.”
Yor’s face became serious again, the kind of serious that one usually only found in people who had been told, at the age of five, that their pet hamster was in fact a highly evolved intergalactic observer sent to study their early development. “I’m afraid the protocol is quite simple: follow me to a quieter location, and I will tell you the full details of my mission. As much as I’d love to stay here and answer everyone’s questions, I must admit, this particular information requires some privacy. You see, there are certain… complications.”
“Complications?” Hanna echoed. She couldn’t decide if she was genuinely intrigued or if this was all one very elaborate prank. It could be an elaborate prank. It had to be. “What kind of complications?”
Yor leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, which now had the unmistakable tone of someone about to unveil the most crucial secret in the history of the universe. “Well, Professor Fischer, some of the other students... might not exactly be human.”
There was a pause, followed by a slow, deliberate blink from Hanna.
“Wait,” she said, feeling both incredulous and incredibly intrigued. “Are you telling me you’re not the only non-human student in this class?”
“Oh no,” Yor said, looking down at his shoes, which were definitely not from this planet. “That’s the least of your worries. Let’s just say, this classroom? It’s not just a lecture hall. It’s more like a zoo.”
At this point, Hanna could no longer contain herself. She put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath.
“Alright, that’s it,” she said, smiling the kind of smile that only a professor who had been teaching for too long could muster. “Take me to your zoo.”
And with that, she followed Yor Eska out of the lecture hall, wondering just what sort of intergalactic field trip she was about to take part in.
III.
A few moments later, Hanna and Yor Eska found themselves walking across the campus, the kind of place where the buildings were old enough to have been started when someone still thought chalkboards were a technological marvel. The wind was slightly too chilly, the kind that made you question whether the planet was trying to kill you slowly, one small breeze at a time. And the dampness in the air clung to everything like an overzealous cat, leaving little puddles of moisture in places one wouldn't expect them.
"So," Hanna began, her mind still struggling to accept the idea that she was now walking alongside someone who was not only an alien but was apparently an intergalactic student, "you’re really a student from another planet. You didn't just fall into an elaborate prank, did you?"
Yor, who had been walking with the unhurried air of someone who had all the time in the universe, quite literally, looked at her with a bemused expression. "I assure you, Professor, this is all very real. The intergalactic educational system is a lot like your university system, but with more bureaucracy and far more paperwork. For example, I had to fill out a form in five different languages, three of which were only spoken by ancient crustaceans, to gain entry here. You should’ve seen the fees for intergalactic postal delivery. I’m still waiting for a confirmation stamp from the Nebulon Bureau of Admissions."
Hanna raised an eyebrow. "And that’s the easy part?"
"Absolutely," Yor confirmed. "Do you know how many forms it takes to request a study visa to a planet that hasn’t even invented warp drive yet? In quadrilateral shapes, mind you. It’s a nightmare. I haven’t even started on the health insurance forms. Not that I think I’ll need them," he added, tapping his chest. "My species has a highly advanced immune system. I can sneeze in a supernova and still make it to dinner."
Hanna had to admit, she hadn’t been prepared for this level of absurdity. "So what’s the purpose of your... study exactly? You’re here to study humans, right? Is there, like, a specific subject?"
Yor hesitated, as if weighing whether to reveal the full scope of his intergalactic studies. "Ah yes, well. The subject at hand is your species' remarkable, if somewhat peculiar, relationship with food. Specifically pizza."
Hanna blinked. "Pizza?"
"Yes. Pizza." Yor grinned with all the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered the true meaning of life in a slice of pepperoni. "It’s a study in contrasts, you see. Pizza represents the essence of human creativity, rebellion, and confusion all wrapped up in cheese. It’s both universally loved and simultaneously baffling. No other species in the galaxy has something quite like it."
“Right,” Hanna said slowly, trying to digest this information. “So you’re here to study pizza…?”
"And its societal implications," Yor added, as though that explained everything. "The entire concept of toppings is an exercise in diplomatic relations. Pepperoni? It’s aggressive, almost imperialistic. Pineapple? A cultural clash, yet people accept it. It’s fascinating."
Hanna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. "Okay," she said, holding up her hands as they entered her office. "Let's just go with it for now. You're an alien. You’re studying pizza. Now, let’s see if I can make any sense of this."
She opened the door to her office, a cosy little room that smelled faintly of tea and an occasional whiff of stale theory papers. A small stack of books teetered dangerously on her desk, alongside a model of the solar system, one that always managed to wobble alarmingly when you got too close. The walls were lined with various astronomical posters, most of which had that slightly aged look, like they’d been printed just before humanity realized it might need more than a vague guess at the shape of the universe.
Yor stepped inside, pausing at the door to take in his surroundings. He smiled, clearly approving of the academic vibe. "Ah, yes. This is much more like home. You have a sense of… disorder, but it’s charming. I’ve been to some galactic universities, and they tend to be a bit too… polished. There’s nothing like the scent of textbooks and tea. Very homey."
"Glad you like it," Hanna said dryly, closing the door behind him. "Now, let’s have it. You said you’ve been compiling a report on human eating habits. Please, do enlighten me. What exactly did you learn from pizza that makes you think you’re qualified to study us?"
Yor’s face lit up as if Hanna had asked him to explain the meaning of the universe. "Ah, it’s not just the pizza, Professor. It’s the ritual around it. The communal aspect of it. The way pizza transcends individual preference, reaching across social boundaries like a culinary democracy. I mean, you can have pineapple, mushrooms, and even… anchovies... on the same pie, and everyone will pretend it’s a good idea. No other species has figured that out."
Hanna, who was a little too accustomed to the occasional oddball in her lectures, wasn’t sure whether to laugh or lecture him on the importance of, perhaps, addressing the larger issues at hand. “So,” she began, trying to keep the tone neutral, “you’ve come all this way to study pizza. What about, you know, our attempts to figure out life in the universe? The Fermi Paradox? The search for extraterrestrial intelligence?”
“Ah, yes,” Yor said, a little too quickly, his enthusiasm dampening only slightly. “I did take a brief look at that. Quite perplexing, really. My professor was particularly interested in the paradox, but we’ve found the best way to resolve it is by avoiding the whole issue entirely. You see, the answer to the Fermi Paradox is that everyone is too busy to notice anyone else. If you focus too much on looking for extraterrestrial life, you’re liable to miss something far more important… like the fact that you’ve forgotten to put sauce on your pizza."
Hanna stared at him. "Are you telling me that the entire reason the galaxy hasn’t made contact is because everyone’s too busy with their own food problems?"
Yor nodded solemnly. "That’s correct. The universe is full of alien species, but they’re all too busy arguing about toppings to bother with anyone else. Believe me, the Zogarians still haven't decided whether to add beetroot to their salad or not. It’s a crisis. They’ve been debating it for decades."
Hanna, feeling her mind begin to unravel, took a long, steady breath. "Right. So, we’re all alone in the universe because of salad and pizza toppings."
"Exactly," Yor said, looking at her as though it were the most logical thing in the galaxy. "But I must admit, Earth’s pizza culture is quite advanced. I suspect it may hold the key to something monumental."
Hanna’s mind was officially spinning. “Well,” she said, trying to steer the conversation back to something that made sense, “let’s assume for a second that you’re right and everything in the universe boils down to pizza. What’s your next step?”
Yor grinned mischievously. "Well, I was hoping to get a more hands-on lesson. Maybe we could start by ordering a pizza? You know, for research purposes."
Hanna sighed, her shoulders sagging. "Alright, fine. But I’m choosing the toppings."
Yor’s eyes gleamed. "Of course, Professor. But just for the record, pineapple is a valid option."
And so, as Hanna placed the order, she couldn’t help but wonder what other unusual affairs she had just stumbled into.
IV.
Hanna Fischer had always prided herself on her ability to maintain a calm, collected demeanour in the face of the bizarre. She had lectured in front of hundreds of students, endured sleepless nights of grant applications, and even navigated a particularly awkward departmental meeting about the new coffee machine, which, for reasons no one could quite explain, only dispensed decaf. But nothing in her years of academic rigor had prepared her for the moment when a student walked into her office, closed the door, and casually announced that he was an alien from a distant planet sent to study humanity.
And now, as she sat across from Yor Eska, the self-proclaimed extraterrestrial, she was beginning to wonder if maybe, just maybe, the coffee machine issue wasn’t quite so strange after all.
Yor, who appeared to be somewhere between an enthusiastic intern and an overzealous tourist, had insisted that the first thing he needed to study was the relationship humans had with their own technology. This was something, Hanna was certain, that could probably fill an entire semester of study, if not a few textbooks, so she had agreed to sit back and let him have his moment of intergalactic insight.
"So," she said, trying to sound patient despite the fact that she felt like she was about to experience a cultural exchange on an entirely new level, "you wanted to start with our relationship with technology. Tell me, Yor, what fascinates you most about it?"
Yor gave her a look that suggested he'd just discovered an obscure, ancient riddle. "It’s simple, really. You’ve invented all these gadgets and machines that make life easier, but for some strange reason, you still believe that anything with ‘wireless’ in its name is automatically more advanced. Take Bluetooth, for instance. What is this obsession with a technology that doesn’t even involve physical connection? Is it some sort of mystical bonding ritual between devices?"
Hanna leaned back in her chair, a smile creeping onto her face. "Ah, Bluetooth. That’s a cultural thing, actually. It goes back to a Viking king named Harald Bluetooth, who..."
"Ah! So, you’re telling me that your entire technological framework is built on dental hygiene?" Yor interrupted, scribbling down notes with alarming speed, the ink practically sizzling on the paper. "A Viking king with bad teeth… I see. Primitive, but highly endearing."
Hanna paused, giving him a long, steady stare. "Well, yes. To be fair, though, the Bluetooth technology itself wasn’t about dental hygiene so much as it was about establishing a connection between devices." She crossed her arms. "But if you’re asking if our advances in wireless technology are rooted in medieval kings’ dental issues, then I suppose that’s one interpretation."
Yor’s face lit up with delight. "Fascinating! The entire internet is based on toothy royalty. My professor will be most pleased with this. We are studying primitive human societies, you know. You people have a fascinating way of tying your advancements to completely unrelated elements, like teeth, animals, and, I assume, pizza."
"Pizza?" Hanna raised an eyebrow.
"Of course! It’s all interconnected. You cannot truly understand human technology without first exploring your deep, spiritual relationship with cheese and dough. It’s the foundation of your scientific method."
"I’m beginning to think you’ve been hanging around too many of my students," Hanna muttered under her breath.
Yor, completely oblivious, smiled. "And then there’s your curious obsession with ‘wireless’. What’s next, Professor? Are you going to tell me that your civilization invented the microwave because it was a tribute to Viking battles, where they cooked their meat with heatless energy?"
"Not quite," Hanna said with a dry laugh. "But I do see where you're coming from. And if we’re really going to get into the history of how wireless technology became such a part of our daily lives, we should probably talk about radio waves and Marconi..."
"Ah! Radio!" Yor interrupted again, his face full of excitement. "Now, this is where it gets interesting. I’ve done some research on your 'radio.' It’s a fascinating, if highly inefficient, method of communication. Tell me, Professor, why do you persist in using these ‘radio waves’ to transmit information when you could just as easily upload your thoughts directly to each other? Are your minds… too small to contain all this information?"
Hanna blinked. "Did you just, did you just suggest that we should upload our thoughts to each other?" she asked incredulously.
"Of course!" Yor said, his tone as if the answer were as obvious as, well, Bluetooth. "Imagine how much more efficient it would be if you didn’t have to bother with things like writing essays or having to listen to radio shows about people playing terrible music. You could just send your entire brainwave patterns directly to your professor. Think of the time you’d save! Why, we could be having this conversation without speaking at all!"
"That… sounds like a nightmare," Hanna said slowly. "I think I’d prefer the radio waves, thank you very much. At least with those, I get to choose whether or not I want to hear anything."
Yor, undeterred by her scepticism, continued as if he were explaining the simplest of ideas. "And then there’s the matter of your smartphones. You people are constantly poking at these little rectangular boxes. It’s fascinating! Is it some form of tribal ritual? Are these 'apps' the equivalent of sacred scrolls that can only be accessed by the chosen ones?"
Hanna bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Not quite. But you’re not entirely wrong. You see, we’ve come to rely on them so much that we sometimes forget how dependent we’ve become on them. They’re not sacred, though some people would argue they’re very close to it—but they are definitely, um, important."
"So," Yor said, tapping his chin, "these rectangular boxes allow you to summon pizza, correct?"
"Yes," Hanna said, eyes narrowing slightly. "It’s called a 'pizza app.' You’re really obsessed with pizza, aren’t you?"
"Of course!" Yor exclaimed. "I have spent a good portion of my intergalactic studies researching food culture, and pizza is by far the most advanced, most universal dish. It defies all logic and yet continues to thrive. It’s a symbol of humanity’s triumph over reason and sense. How else can you explain the concept of pineapple on a pizza?"
At this, Hanna’s control slipped. "Pineapple is not as controversial as you think," she said, holding up her hands defensively. "There are people who love it. And frankly, if it keeps people from fighting over toppings, I say go ahead and throw it on."
Yor raised an eyebrow. "Is it truly a peaceful food, then? Or is it merely a trick to keep the masses distracted while the real wars are fought over more important issues, like cheese types?"
Hanna considered this. "You know, you might be onto something," she said, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Maybe pineapple on pizza is the true solution to intergalactic peace."
Yor’s face lit up as if he’d just been granted the answer to the universe’s greatest riddle. "I must document this immediately!" he said, grabbing a notebook out of nowhere. "This is revolutionary. You may have just cracked the cosmic code. Pineapple on pizza could be the secret to saving your species—and, dare I say it, the entire galaxy!"
Hanna laughed. "Well, I’m glad to have been of service. I’ll be sure to add it to my resume."
Yor paused, looking at her with genuine concern. "I should have asked earlier. Are you sure you’re not under duress from your species? Should I get you help? There’s a very good rehabilitation center on my home planet for people who have become too dependent on pineapple pizza. We have excellent mind expansions that involve deep meditation and a great deal of cheese."
"Thank you," Hanna said, smiling, "but I think I’ll pass. I’m just fine with my current obsession. But let’s get back to your research. What’s next?"
Yor put his notebook down, looking a bit disappointed, as if the universe had just failed to live up to its promises. "Oh, right. Next, I’d like to explore your relationship with electricity. You’ve figured out how to harness it, yet you still insist on ‘plugging things in.’ Do you have some sort of religious attachment to the socket?"
Hanna groaned. "Let’s just see what happens when you plug your phone into the wall, Yor. Maybe it will finally teach you some sense."
Yor beamed. "Ah, I see! More rituals. I do love a good ritual."
As the two of them settled into yet another conversation about human technology, Hanna realized that perhaps the strangest part of the day hadn’t been meeting an alien in her office. It was the fact that she might just have to teach him about Bluetooth’s origins.
V.
In the grand tradition of humans everywhere, Yor Eska found that the best way to approach life was to simply ask questions, lots of them, without worrying too much about the answers. It was a habit that had served him well on his home planet, where the local fauna, an unfortunate cross between a parrot and a particularly judgmental cactus, had made him an expert in interrogating things that probably didn’t have any answers to begin with. So when he was given the grand opportunity to study human culture, he did what any good alien would do: he launched a campaign of relentless inquiry into everything.
The first thing that struck Yor as unbelievably confusing was the coffee machine.
"Professor," he asked during one of his lectures, his hand shot up faster than a rocket in a gravity-free zone, "why do you insist on calling the coffee machine 'self-serve'? Is it not more accurate to say the machine 'serves you,' but only if you press the right button at exactly the right time?"
The entire lecture hall fell silent. Every student turned to look at him as though he had just recited the entire works of Shakespeare backwards in Klingon. Hanna Fischer, who had been in the middle of explaining some very important cosmological concept, blinked rapidly, as if someone had just asked her to explain the inner workings of the universe using nothing but macaroni and a stapler.
After a moment’s pause, she cleared her throat. "Well, it’s a metaphorical self-service," she said, her voice a little more wobbly than usual. "You see, you’re still doing the work, just..."
Yor was already nodding sagely. "Ah, I see. So it’s a lie, then?"
"No!" Hanna said, her face flushing the colour of a particularly ripe tomato. "It’s... poetic license."
"Ah, yes," Yor said with an expression of profound understanding. "Poetry. That makes perfect sense. Humans are very good at making things sound more complicated than they really are."
The students, who had been holding their breath, let out a collective exhale, relieved that the lecture was still going to continue, though, frankly, they weren’t entirely sure what they had just witnessed. Hanna, however, was still trying to untangle the mess in her mind, wondering how she’d gone from explaining the nature of the universe to defending the integrity of a coffee machine.
"Well," she said, forcing a smile, "that’s one way of looking at it."
But Yor wasn’t done. Of course he wasn’t. He had questions. He always had questions.
"So if the coffee machine serves you, but you also serve it," he continued, his voice growing increasingly excited, "does that make it a two-way service relationship? Like, is the machine obligated to serve you coffee if you press the right button, or is it simply doing you a favour?"
Hanna opened her mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more, as if the very idea of a coffee machine having moral obligations was suddenly too vast a concept to comprehend. Her brain, as a professor of cosmology, was adept at contemplating black holes, the origins of the universe, and the delicate dance of quantum particles. But this? This was a whole new frontier of complexity.
"Well, it’s not quite like that," she began, "but there is something to be said for the way humans and, well, machines, interact."
"And what about the toaster?" Yor interrupted, leaning forward eagerly. "Do you have to earn the toaster’s respect before it browns your bread?"
The class was staring now, half in confusion, half in fascination, and entirely unsure whether to laugh or call for backup. Yor Eska had cracked open the door to human absurdity and was peering inside with all the gleeful curiosity of a child poking at a very strange and possibly dangerous insect.
"Er, the toaster?" Hanna stammered, unsure of whether to answer or just point Yor toward the nearest spaceship back to wherever he came from.
"Yes!" Yor said. "If I press the button at the wrong time, or too early, does it give me the cold shoulder and leave my toast raw in the middle? What is the true nature of the toaster? Is it an appliance, or is it a reflection of human psychology?"
Hanna opened her mouth to reply but quickly shut it again. Her ability to discuss the complexities of the universe had not, in fact, prepared her for a philosophical discussion about the emotional states of kitchen appliances. But this was the world she had entered with Yor, who seemed to think that every object in her world had deep psychological implications.
"Right," she said after a long pause. "Well, you could say that the toaster is a bit... temperamental."
"Ah!" Yor shouted triumphantly, as if he had just discovered the cure for intergalactic tension. "So it is a reflection of the human psyche! Temperamental, unpredictable, and prone to making everything a little bit... crispier than expected!"
The students, who had largely been watching in stunned silence, began to laugh. Yor's enthusiasm was infectious, and the absurdity of the whole conversation was quickly turning into something delightfully absurd.
Hanna, who was now several layers of exasperated yet entertained, decided that the best way to regain some semblance of order was to get back to the lecture, though she wasn’t entirely sure how she could pivot from toaster philosophy to cosmology. She glanced at her notes, realized they had nothing to do with either toast or coffee, and sighed.
"Alright," she said, "back to the universe. Can we please focus on..."
"The coffee machine," Yor interrupted with another hand raised. "What is the true essence of a coffee machine, Professor? You say it serves, but it also demands service. And you humans are completely fine with this, even though it’s very clearly a form of manipulation. Shouldn’t you be concerned that your appliances are forming parasitic relationships with you?"
Hanna blinked. "I don’t think it’s quite that serious."
"But the toaster is clearly a sociopath," Yor said, eyes gleaming with the kind of revelation that only a true outsider could experience. "And the fridge? Oh, don’t get me started on the fridge! It hides food and only gives it back when you’ve learned its secret code!"
This time, the students couldn’t contain themselves. Laughter erupted through the lecture hall, and even Hanna, whose professional dignity was valiantly holding onto the last few shreds of reality, had to smile. She had often thought that teaching humans was a bit like trying to herd a group of particularly excitable ducks, but this? This was something else entirely.
"Alright," she said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye, "let’s all take a deep breath, and I promise that after this, we’ll get back to the mysteries of the universe, and not the existential crises of kitchen appliances."
Yor, however, looked somewhat disappointed. "Very well," he said, adjusting his notes. "But I still have questions about the refrigerator. I believe it has deep-seated issues that may require your attention."
As Hanna stifled a sigh and tried not to think about how long this lecture was going to last, she couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the universe’s greatest mysteries weren’t in the stars. They were, instead, in the fridge.
VI.
Yor Eska, student of intergalactic relations, had always prided himself on his keen powers of observation. If he could navigate the dense jungles of his home planet, avoiding the terrifyingly sharp toothpicks of the giant Avenkali birds, then surely studying a primitive society like Earth's would be no challenge at all. But after two weeks of living among the humans, Yor had begun to revise his earlier estimations. Observing human society, it seemed, was like trying to study the behaviour of jellyfish at a carnival. Neither the jellyfish nor the carnival had any clear purpose, and every observation led only to more questions.
His latest project, in particular, was one that had required considerable dedication: studying human food rituals.
He had, of course, been introduced to the concept of "pizza" on his first day on Earth. To most, this would have been an easy thing to understand. "It’s just a dish, right?" Yor had thought. "A simple, circular carbohydrate-based concoction with various toppings. How strange could it be?" What he had not counted on, however, was the ritual that accompanied it.
It had started simply enough. He had found a pizza place near the university, a modest little shop called "Ziggy’s Slice of Heaven," which seemed to specialize in making food that was both mysteriously rectangular and inexplicably round. Yor had stood in line behind a human who seemed to be having an extremely passionate conversation with the counter about the toppings.
"What do you mean by ‘mushrooms’?" the human had asked with a desperate look in his eyes. "Are we talking real mushrooms or... what? Are they cooked? Are they sautéed? Please don’t make me go through this again."
The pizza chef, who was doing a remarkable impression of a very tired octopus, had rolled his eyes so far back into his head they might have gotten stuck there. "Just get the mushrooms," he said. "They come with the pizza."
Yor had been intrigued. Surely the fungal status of mushrooms wasn't this contentious on other planets. In fact, on some planets, discussing mushrooms was considered a formal greeting.
After a while, Yor had figured out that pizza was a precious ritual for humans, a moment of intense decision-making that they approached with the seriousness of a galactic treaty negotiation. He had watched as one human ordered a pizza with extra cheese, an audacious move that Yor was still trying to understand. Would the universe collapse under the weight of so much dairy? But it wasn’t until he saw the pineapple controversy unfold that Yor’s mind truly began to unravel.
"You can’t put pineapple on pizza," a human named Carl had stated with the firm certainty of someone who had read a pamphlet on pizza etiquette in the year 1875. "It’s an abomination."
"Why not?" asked a woman named Linda, whose confusion was clearly genuine. "It’s just fruit. What’s wrong with fruit?"
Carl, his eyes narrowing in the manner of someone who’d just discovered that the toaster might be a psychopath, took a long, solemn breath. "It’s just... wrong." His voice quivered, as if he had personally witnessed the collapse of an entire galaxy due to a single pineapple slice.
Yor, sensing an opportunity for anthropological progress, had boldly approached the counter and asked, "Why does this matter so much? I’ve travelled across five star systems and encountered seven types of sentient slime, and yet this, this pizza, is the most contentious thing I have ever seen."
Carl, looking at him as if Yor had just emerged from a particularly troublesome cabbage patch, said, "You don't understand. You can't put pineapple on pizza. It’s like putting... putting socks on a cactus!"
Yor blinked. "I’ve never met a cactus wearing socks," he said, making a mental note to investigate further. "But I suspect that’s a metaphor I don’t fully comprehend. Could you explain it?"
Carl shook his head like a teacher confronting a particularly slow pupil. "You just know it’s wrong. It’s against nature."
Yor scribbled something in his notebook, underlining the word nature twice. "Interesting. I shall conduct further studies," he said solemnly, though in his heart, he knew the matter was far from resolved.
As the day wore on, Yor decided it was time for some more rigorous observation of everyday human communication. The students had left for the day, but the cafe had stayed open, and Yor was eager to analyze the interactions of those who lingered. He had noticed a curious pattern in human conversations: Most interactions could be boiled down to two basic phrases: “What’s up?” and “Not much.”
He had, of course, asked his professor about this. “Professor Fischer,” he’d begun in his best academic tone, “why is it that humans greet each other with such... inexplicable brevity? What is ‘up’?”
Professor Fischer, who had just about recovered from the toaster-related philosophical meltdown from the previous day, smiled wryly. "Yor," she said, "it’s a casual greeting. It’s just... polite small talk."
"Ah," Yor said, taking careful notes, "so it’s not about the physical position of objects, but rather a social ritual designed to affirm the fact that you are indeed human and alive?"
"Yes. Sort of," Professor Fischer said. "But mostly, it’s just a way of passing the time."
"Fascinating," Yor mused. “In my culture, the equivalent of this is asking ‘How is the trajectory of your gravitational pull today?’ which, it turns out, is too much for most to handle."
This, it seemed, was the moment Yor’s deep curiosity about human culture reached a tipping point. If small talk was this complicated, then surely the human relationships were a labyrinth of impossible dimensions.
Feeling a sense of growing urgency, Yor put together a report for his professor, though he wasn’t exactly sure how to explain the subtleties of what he had observed.
* * * * * *
Professor Zorx,
I have completed the initial phase of my study into human culture. It is a frustrating endeavour. On one hand, humans have developed highly sophisticated technologies, such as spacecraft capable of interplanetary travel and communication devices that allow them to send messages instantaneously. Yet, they have not solved the question of pineapple on pizza and small talk is apparently a deeply ingrained part of their daily life.
I am beginning to think that the great achievements of humanity are directly proportionate to their ability to distract themselves from more fundamental mysteries.
I suggest we consider abandoning this project entirely. Perhaps we should study sentient seaweed instead. At least they have a clear purpose in life.
Yours in the pursuit of questionable knowledge,
Yor Eska
* * * * * *
Professor Fischer had read the report, raised an eyebrow, then set it down with a heavy sigh. Her day had been full of questions, but none quite as perplexing as those raised by her new alien student.
"Well," she muttered to herself, "at least he's getting the hang of Earth."
Meanwhile, Yor was already planning his next adventure. There was a spaghetti restaurant in the next town over, and rumour had it that their meatballs were so perplexing they could alter the very fabric of space-time.
It was going to be an interesting day.
VII.
The sun hung lazily over Stockholm, casting a warm, golden hue over the streets below. The sort of weather that made people think they'd suddenly developed an overwhelming need for coffee and deep, existential conversation. Which, it turned out, was precisely the type of weather that Yor Eska, a curious young alien from the far reaches of the galaxy, had grown to associate with "serious discussion" in his very short Earthly career.
Yor was sitting in the corner of Professor Hanna Fischer’s favourite café, the kind of café that only existed in places where people had long decided that four walls, a roof, and a coffee machine constituted the pinnacle of human invention. And despite the fact that Hanna could barely keep a straight face whenever they entered, the café had rapidly become their regular meeting spot.
It wasn’t a particularly large establishment. In fact, one might say it was almost comically cramped, as though the owner had decided to design it for the purpose of encouraging conversations between strangers who couldn’t stand personal space. It was, however, extremely popular, and not just with humans. It turned out that the café’s secret weapon was a mystery blend of coffee beans, rumoured to be smuggled from a nearby solar system. This was either true or a particularly clever bit of local legend, but Yor, being someone who took all tales of space trade routes seriously, had chosen to believe it.
Today, however, Yor had a very important matter on his mind. He took a sip of the mysterious coffee, set it down with a slight grimace (he was still getting used to its... peculiar aftertaste), and looked at Hanna, whose eyes twinkled as though she were aware something most interesting was about to happen.
"Professor," Yor began in his usual, grave tone, "I have been conducting further studies into the human dietary habits. I have come to an inescapable conclusion, one that will forever change how you view your species."
Hanna raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Is this about the pineapple on pizza controversy again? I’m still recovering from the last time you tried to explain that one."
"No, no, this is far more important," Yor replied, his voice unwavering. "This concerns a matter of both scientific and philosophical significance. It concerns... pizza toppings."
Hanna blinked, then leaned back in her chair with a wry smile. "Pizza toppings. Of course."
Yor’s eyes gleamed with the intensity of a scientist who had just made the sort of discovery that could cause the fabric of reality itself to tremble. "Professor, I have scoured countless human forums, devoured entire books on the subject, and even conducted a highly scientific survey in which I asked fifty students at the university: What is the best pizza topping?"
Hanna opened her mouth, but Yor continued, undeterred.
"I am here to tell you, Professor Fischer, that the best pizza topping of all time, the one topping that transcends all others, is unequivocally... mushrooms."
There was a long, painful pause.
Hanna blinked at him, the kind of blink that suggested she was slowly calculating the precise number of ways she could gently and politely inform Yor that, perhaps, his understanding of human cuisine was still somewhat lacking.
"Mushrooms?" she finally said. "Are you... serious?"
Yor looked at her as if she had just questioned the validity of Einstein’s theory of relativity. "Of course! Mushrooms provide the perfect balance of umami and texture. It is scientifically proven. The richness of the fungi combined with the ideal level of moisture..."
Hanna raised her hand, cutting him off. "Hold on a minute. Scientifically proven? You’re really going to start pulling out the science card on pizza toppings?"
"Yes," Yor said, nodding solemnly. "I have conducted extensive research. I have consulted expert forums on the subject, including ‘The Galactic Guide to Proper Pizza,’ and have cross-referenced the opinions of no fewer than 57 anthropologists. The consensus is clear: mushrooms are the apex topping."
"Uh-huh," Hanna said, narrowing her eyes as she leaned forward, clearly enjoying this. "Well, Yor, I’m going to give you a chance to rethink that statement. Do you know what’s in direct competition with mushrooms as the most popular topping?"
Yor looked at her, his expression unchanging. "Pepperoni?"
"That’s one, sure," she said with a glint in her eye. "But you’ve forgotten the true challenger."
Yor paused, a sudden sense of unease creeping into his otherwise confident demeanour. "What... could possibly compete with mushrooms?"
"Anchovies," Hanna said, her voice filled with mock gravitas. "The salty, mysterious, and borderline dangerous creatures of the sea. The great rebel topping that divides the world."
Yor recoiled slightly, as if he had just been informed that anchovies were, in fact, some sort of sentient life form that had infiltrated human society with malicious intent. "But... but they’re fish!" he said, scandalized. "Why would anyone put fish on a pizza? It’s unnatural. Preposterous! The very concept of fish on pizza violates the fundamental principles of pizza harmony!"
Hanna, clearly enjoying herself, leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. "And yet, the human race has embraced it. Some humans, anyway. In fact, in a blind taste test I conducted, 65% of participants preferred anchovies over mushrooms. And that, Yor, is the beauty of human nature. It’s chaotic, it’s unpredictable, and it’s deeply flawed."
Yor looked at her with something approaching shock. "But... but that’s madness! How can they not see the truth? The truth is clear: mushrooms are the key to pizza enlightenment!"
Hanna smirked, her eyes glinting with a mischievous light. "You see, this is why Earth is so fascinating. It’s not just about logic or science or even taste. It’s about what makes people feel something. About emotions and preferences that defy reason."
Yor stared at her. He was quiet for a long time, considering. Finally, he let out a deep sigh and pushed his empty coffee cup away. "Professor Fischer, I must admit... I may have underestimated the complexity of human decision-making."
"Just a little," Hanna agreed. "But that’s what makes you an interesting student. You're learning that the universe doesn’t always play by the rules. Sometimes, pizza toppings don’t follow the scientific method."
Yor sat back in his chair, looking contemplative. "I suppose," he said after a long pause, "that I should be prepared for the next stage of my research. I will need to study... pineapple. But I fear I am not yet ready for that journey."
Hanna grinned. "Oh, you will be. And when you are, let me know. We can talk about it over a pizza."
And so, Yor’s quest for pizza enlightenment continued, a quest that would inevitably lead to further debates, much like the one they had just had. He left the café that day with a deeper understanding of the human condition: that, much like their pizza preferences, humans were as wonderfully contradictory as they were perplexing.
He also decided that perhaps he could conduct some further research into human desserts. If there was one thing he had learned on Earth, it was that humans had very strong opinions about things that were not pizza.
VIII.
As the clock on the wall ticked ever onward, the Stockholm sky, a light shade of pink as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, seemed to mock the idea of “time well spent.” In the grand cosmic scheme, the concept of time well spent was, of course, laughable. To an alien like Yor Eska, who hailed from a distant star system and had only recently discovered that Earth wasn’t quite as primitive as it looked from the outside, the entire concept of a “day” seemed a bit like a cruel joke. After all, a few minutes on his home planet could feel like an eternity. So why should a 24-hour rotation be of any significance to a being who could meditate for three centuries before deciding it was time to have a snack?
But all things must come to an end, and so, as his short, confusing, and remarkably tasty stay on Earth came to a close, Yor found himself standing outside Professor Hanna Fischer’s office for what could only be described as an existential goodbye. Not one of those awkward, back-slapping "See you next semester" types, but the kind where both parties are well aware that a great deal of bizarre, inexplicable, and moderately insane events had just transpired, and the future was now uncertain. After all, who knew when a highly intelligent alien with a questionable taste in pizza toppings would return to the academic halls of a world so woefully behind the curve on really understanding fungi?
Yor adjusted his rather peculiar interdimensional bag, which, as Hanna had put it, "looked like someone had thrown together a backpack and a small black hole, and then tried to charge for it." He had learned a lot during his stay, mostly about human behaviour, pizza, and the utter unpredictability of humans when faced with alien logic (which, let’s be honest, was mostly a series of random facts and hypotheses gathered from late-night discussions on intergalactic forums).
“So,” Yor began, trying for a note of profundity, but only managing a slightly bewildered cough. "I suppose I’ll be going now. My mission is complete. I have gathered sufficient data on the primitive and barbaric society of humans."
Professor Fischer, who was seated across from him and trying her hardest not to snicker, leaned back in her chair and gave him an amused look. "I think you might be overstating the barbaric part. Most humans don’t even have intergalactic space-faring technology. And we really don’t need to bring up the pineapple thing again."
Yor’s antennae twitched, ever so slightly, in what could only be described as mild distress. "It was fascinating, though. To observe such… passionate disagreements. About pizza, of all things."
Hanna’s eyes twinkled, and she leaned forward conspiratorially. "You’d be surprised, Yor. You really would. It’s like the essence of human nature. Debates. About the most trivial things. Pizza. Reality TV. The best way to organize a sock drawer."
Yor furrowed his brow. "I don’t think I will ever understand socks. On my home planet, clothing is more of a suggestion than a requirement. But I do understand the debate aspect now. It’s like… it's like everyone’s been given a toy to fight over, but no one knows how it works. It’s fascinating."
Hanna chuckled. "That’s one way to look at it. Well, I’m glad you’ve had an enlightening time on Earth. At least you’re leaving with a broader perspective. But don’t think you can escape mushrooms."
Yor’s eyes narrowed with mock determination. "You realize, of course, I’m going to introduce mushrooms to every planet I visit from now on. There will be a galaxy-wide movement, a mushroom revolution, if you will."
Professor Fischer sat back, pretending to be concerned. "And you’ll be the leader, of course. ‘Yor Eska, the Conqueror of Mushrooms.’"
"Absolutely," Yor said, his voice filled with the certainty of a person who had never truly considered how silly that sounded. "I will reign over all with the power of fungi. I will form alliances with the Mycoxians and rally the forces of... the Sporeborn!"
"Well," Hanna said, laughing, "I’d love to be there for that. But for now, I think you’ve earned your place in history as Earth’s most eccentric visitor."
Yor stood up, his dignity fully intact, and reached for the door handle. But before leaving, he paused. The thought of departing Earth, and Professor Fischer’s charmingly absurd planet, suddenly felt like a moment worth reflecting on. A moment that could, in fact, become the stuff of future academic papers, maybe even a textbook. A footnote in the grand narrative of the universe, written in the stars. (Or in mushroom ink, as he would prefer.)
He turned to face Hanna once more, a gleam of something between fondness and absolute confusion in his eyes. "Professor Fischer," he said with all the seriousness of someone who had just realized that the concept of humour might actually be more significant than any of the scientific principles he’d spent his life studying, "you’ve taught me more in the last few weeks than I could have learned in a thousand years of studying other species. And I have, indeed, learned much about your kind. You humans are odd, unpredictable creatures. But you... have something very important that I didn’t expect to find."
Hanna raised an eyebrow. "And what’s that?"
Yor grinned, his antennae twitching with a mixture of glee and understanding. "You’re all really good at making things up. I mean, honestly, you’re basically the unsung masters of making things up. Pizza. Socks. Superheroes. Not to mention your absurd obsession with cats."
Hanna stared at him, clearly bewildered. "We’re... the masters of making things up?"
"Absolutely!" Yor declared, feeling like he had just solved the meaning of life. "You’ve invented a whole universe in your minds. And you believe it. You truly believe it. It's incredible. And it makes you much more interesting than you have any right to be. Perhaps one day, someone will study you, really study you and they’ll conclude that your greatest achievement wasn’t the wheel or the internet or even cheese… but your ability to imagine."
There was a long pause. Hanna blinked.
"Are you telling me that I’m basically the subject of some alien’s thesis on ‘How to make things up really well’? Is that your way of saying goodbye?"
Yor turned toward the door with a nod, his hand hovering over the handle. "That’s exactly what I’m saying. And also… remember to keep eating those mushrooms."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and the sound of a distant spaceship's engines firing up filled the air. Professor Fischer sat alone for a moment, her hand frozen in mid-air as though contemplating something profound.
Then she smiled, leaned back in her chair, and muttered, "Well, if nothing else, at least we didn’t have to deal with pineapple pizza."
And somewhere, far across the galaxy, Yor Eska sat in his ship, sipping what he was now convinced was the perfect cup of alien coffee. A cup that was, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, suspiciously mushroom-flavoured.
The universe, as it turns out, is full of wonders. But it’s the mysteries of pizza, socks, and the occasional alien visitor that make it really interesting.
And perhaps that’s all anyone really needs to know.
THE END
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