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Synopsis

There are rules for first contact with aliens. And a place to meet aliens where the rules are enforced. Simple things like avoiding smelly bodily emissions, even if your race considers them a compliment, and complicated things like not asking another race if they are edible.
Feel free to read up on the rules of the First Contact Cafe, then pull up a bar stool, or a pool of sludge, have a drink of beer or get high on methane, and plan your next trade deal, a compelling con, or find a mate compatible to your DNA. But whatever you do, don’t piss off the bartender. Your prosperity, or your demise belongs in her hands. She owns the First Contact Café, and your soul.

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