'Ah. You're a clever, aren't you?' Ripley said. 'Asking all the right questions like some kind of right-question-asking-machine from the planet Smartass. But I know where you're going with this, mister! You want to know who I am.'
'There's no fooling you,' the pilgrim said, his smile returning.
'You bet your ugly face. But I'll make you a deal: I'll answer your questions if you answer mine.'
The pilgrim frowned in confusion. 'That sounds fine, but what could I tell you that you'd want to know?'
'Oh, lots of stuff. Go on, you start,' she said.
'How old are you?'
'I stopped counting at seven hundred and eighty years.'
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