The goblin folds up the paper and turns to the elf, who’s slurping his tea. “So the Catholic Church says it’ll welcome space aliens as brothers and sisters,” says the goblin. They’re at their usual worn-down wooden table at the pub in Cork, hours after closing. Outside it’s morning, but barely any of that makes its way in here.

“Really,” says the elf. “How d’you figger they’ll handle the ‘made in His image’ thing?”

The goblin holds his hands apart and makes a face that says “who the hell knows?” He slaps a slice of tomato on his tongue and chews.

“Is this just going to be the missionary-heathen thing again?” asks the elf.

“The savage from outer space?”

The elf pushes his eggs around with his toast. “Not sure I like what that says, though.” He puts his cigarette out in egg yolk. “Aliens get the benefit of the doubt, after all the shit we put up with?”

The goblin’s chewing sausage. “Maybe it says they learned something.”

“Yeah, like the fact everyone’ll jump ship when Klaatu lands.” The elf lights up.