Narrator: Midtown San Asimov, Celeschul. . . Less than a block from the HTRN building.
Legs: What do you think, Sarge?
Schlock: They sell food here. It's perfect.
Legs: It's also practically next door to HTRN, and they serve Unioc specialties. It's a perfect place for Sergeant Ebbirnoth to check in without raising suspicion.
MWC Proprietor: Hey, look at you two. A carbosilicate amorph and a Frellenti!
Legs: You're pretty good. Is this your place?
MWC Proprietor: Naw, my wife owns it. Well. . . She owns 75%. But she's got a stranglehold on our purchasing. Won't let me stock the stuff our more exotic customers are looking for.
Legs: At least you're not a wage-slave, right?
MWC Proprietor: Wage slaves have it easy. At least they get vacation time!
MWC Proprietor: My wife won't let me have a vacation. Says I don't work enough as it is, like somehow us not having enough customers is my fault.
MWC Proprietor: Sometimes I just take off for a few days. Gotta get away, you know. It's not like she misses me. I've been sleeping on the couch since eighty-eight.
MWC Proprietor: So. . . What'll you guys. . . have?
Legs: I say we let Ebby make his drops here in the garbage.
Schlock: I'll hide in the bottom of the can.