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me worse than that creteng excretion of a chef!”
    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 couldn’t 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 wasn’t.
    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. He’d 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 fussier—and most prone to gossip—clients. Give them something memorable and expensive—the two-hour delay would soon be forgotten.
    With luck.
    Something he’d been running short of lately.
    â€œExcuse me. Hom Huido?”
    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 she’d arrived—yet another of those days when the universe begrudged a simple restaurateur any peace....
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    â€œHom Huido. Come quickly. There’s someone to see you at the service entrance.”
    â€œDeal with it. I’m a little busy, Ansel,” the Carasian rumbled, one clawtip entering the code to his private apartment. His staff knew better than to interrupt him when the restaurant wasn’t open, especially since the installation of a proper pool—and the arrival of its delectably insatiable inhabitants.
    Ansel, normally the most easily intimidated being on Plexis, grabbed Huido’s 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. “What’s the matter?”
    â€œYou have to come yourself.”
    More eyes reluctantly left their lustful fix on the code pad to join the cluster studying the Human. Definite agitation. “Has the accountant missed a payment to the station?” Huido asked reasonably enough. Plexis wasn’t patient when it came to fees or taxes. Her collectors tended to be opinionated and prone to blustering—until one of the staff brought Huido. Some weeks, he sighed to himself, it seemed he was constantly in demand to intimidate some biped or other—not that the activity lacked charm, but there was only so much time in a day. More eyes shifted back to the door.
    â€œNo. No. You must come!” Ansel dashed away, as if certain this uncharacteristic secrecy would pique the Carasian’s 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