Nambo, the 6187th, sat in pleasant reverie aboard the starship Polaris. Little was the thought in his highly developed brain. The tracings of Alaric, the 48th century's greatest artist, led his mind to Nirvana. There he rested until hunger disturbed him.
   Later, Nambo walked slowly from the Polaris to the immigration tower. His body was sated. The salamander stew had been magnificent.
   "What do you have to declare upon your entrance to the galaxy's most refined civilization?"
   The customs agent stared smugly at Nambo. A certain perverseness surfaced in our long-traveling Nambo.
   "A head full of the tracings of Alaric and a belly full of the finest Urodelas."
   It was six revolutions of humankind's first planet before Nambo found the reason for his swift imprisonment.
   Murder!
   "Who would have guessed," Nambo mused, "that members of the Urodela order would have the same right to life on this planet as primates?"