"Plausibly, he could be right," says Table-sitter, but everybody else is already backing as far away as the room will allow. It's about a 20'x20' room.
N-w-d-s sighs. "Should I just call a security squad and some physicists or something? Or actually just call the physicists and let them hire their own security squad."
"No!" Kwaiets blurts. Everyone looks at him, except N-w-d-s, who is watching Toy-Mun.
"Are you proposing that we hoard this asset?" says Pel.
("He doesn't mean it in a dehumanizing way," grumbles Table-sitter to Toy-Mun. Then he double-takes, cringes. "Or, I mean, a depersonalizing way . . . ?")
Kwaiets's bearing flickers for a fraction of a second, then becomes impassable as steel. "Yes", he hisses. He meets the eyes of every co-cultist in slow turn. Gravely: "We fancy ourselves we know what to do with data points on natural selection." His eyebrows raise challengingly, daring contradiction.
When none comes: "Do any of you want to look back, twenty, thirty years from now, at the explosion of revelations that comes from this, and be thinking to yourself, over and over, 'I had the chance for that to be me, and I sold it'?"
Table-sitter looks like someone trying to look unimpressed. "Does anyone here want to be looking back at the mess he made of this twenty or thirty years from now, and thinking to himself, 'I could have just done the sane thing and sold off that alien and forever been followed around by my reputation as a responsible contributor to society who knows how not to fight bigger tigers than he can take, instead of the reputation of a child who muddles in things and just makes them worse'?"
"Yes", mutters Pel, at the same time as Kwaiets proudly cries "Fuck yeah I do!"
Everyone by this point is side-eyeing N-w-d-s, who is unreadable.
N-w-d-s says, "All of this is moot if Toy-Mun does not wish to remain in our custody. Especially if he has teleportation powers."