Had he known it, Jorak would have used the word rube, but what about Geria?
The green number on the white door was painted sharply—4027. "Here's my room," Smith said. He tried an indifferent wave, but it hardly worked, and he began to blush again.
Geria skipped lightly down the hall, and he couldn't see her face to tell if she were smiling. He shrugged, opened the door.
"Earthsmith! Oh, no ... I come half way across the galaxy to get here, so what are the odds against any particular room mate? Huge, that's what. But I got me—hello, Earthsmith."
It was the purple man, Jorak. He had just recently greased his shock of bright green hair, and he had turned away from the mirror when Smith opened the door. Now he turned back to the tinted glass and held his head at various angles.
"Well, can you change rooms if you want to?" Smith asked pleasantly.
"You're not going to chase me out of my own room, Earthsmith. You can change if you'd like. Not me."
"All right if you want me to I'll change."
"If I want you to! Don't pass the blame to me, Earthsmith. I didn't say a thing about changing, not me. Don't you think I'm good enough for you?"