me worse than that creteng excretion of a chef!â
Ansel left, moving as quickly as possible through the bustling crowd of sous chefs, bakers, cleaners, and anxious servers, the latter lurking in any available space that kept them out of the dining room. Things were, to put it mildly, getting ugly out there. Chef Neltare couldnât have found a busier night to abandon the restaurant, or a touchier crowd to leave foodless than this already dissatisfied group of theatergoers. Opening night for Hamlet the Scat had flopped like the spectacle it wasnât.
Unfortunately, a gold air tag guaranteed a paying customer, not one with patience.
While things simmered, including a pot of prawlies that had finally given up trying to squirm to imagined freedom, Huido poured a beer into his upper left handling claw, transferring the soothing, cool liquid into his mouth with a practiced slurp. Single greatest invention of the Human species, he reminded himself. Heâd managed without a Master Fool at the stovetop before now. Mind you, then most of his customers had worn spacer coveralls of the faded variety and tended to order any food that went well with beer. And rarely tipped.
He sighed, a rain-on-plas sound. The staff could keep up using some prepared courses. He need only offer a couple of the favorites as specials to appease his fussierâand most prone to gossipâclients. Give them something memorable and expensiveâthe two-hour delay would soon be forgotten.
With luck.
Something heâd been running short of lately.
âExcuse me. Hom Huido?â
One eye swung back and down to target the source of the quiet voice: Ruti, one of the more recent additions to his kitchen staff. Small, yet sturdily-built, with bright dark eyes and short, even darker hair, she passed well enough for Human to those without his finer senses. He remembered vividly when sheâd arrivedâyet another of those days when the universe begrudged a simple restaurateur any peace....
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âHom Huido. Come quickly. Thereâs someone to see you at the service entrance.â
âDeal with it. Iâm a little busy, Ansel,â the Carasian rumbled, one clawtip entering the code to his private apartment. His staff knew better than to interrupt him when the restaurant wasnât open, especially since the installation of a proper poolâand the arrival of its delectably insatiable inhabitants.
Ansel, normally the most easily intimidated being on Plexis, grabbed Huidoâs nearest handling claw and began to pull. While the gesture had as much effect as if the Human tried to move a bulkhead, the Carasian was surprised enough to send a few eyes his way. âWhatâs the matter?â
âYou have to come yourself.â
More eyes reluctantly left their lustful fix on the code pad to join the cluster studying the Human. Definite agitation. âHas the accountant missed a payment to the station?â Huido asked reasonably enough. Plexis wasnât patient when it came to fees or taxes. Her collectors tended to be opinionated and prone to blusteringâuntil one of the staff brought Huido. Some weeks, he sighed to himself, it seemed he was constantly in demand to intimidate some biped or otherânot that the activity lacked charm, but there was only so much time in a day. More eyes shifted back to the door.
âNo. No. You must come!â Ansel dashed away, as if certain this uncharacteristic secrecy would pique the Carasianâs curiosity.
It did, although Huido rattled and clanked warningly behind the Human. The Carasian could move relatively quietly on his spongy feet, but preferred not to waste any opportunity for self-expression.
When he reached the service entrance, however, the familiar and ominous tang of Clan grist stopped him in his tracks. The source was a small being, deceptively Human-looking, standing just inside the doors to the serviceway behind the restaurant.
Ansel, the
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