"Senescence," the cracked, crone-like MP's voice intoned, "unlike our own species, the rate of genetic mutations mounts geometrically with age." The small blue thing rattled around the cage, its several arms all ending in minute, elegant, theatrical hands.
"The point is," she said, "its so-called powers are off the charts, but its mental stability, the sheer damge it could do" -- she sighed -- "what this is, is a diplomatic nightmare."
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