The café disappeared. All that remained was Ment, Glyph, the table, the chairs, and the ancient cellphone in Glyph’s hand. The café was replaced with a pale glow that shrouded everything in a haze of unrecognizability. A man in a crisp blue suit with a severe red tie stepped up to the table.

“Gentlemen,” the man said in a deep voice with a slight Eastern European lean to it. He glared at Glyph. “I thought you were told to only use the phone in case of emergencies, Mr. Masterson.”

“This IS an emergency, Uly,” Glyph responded gruffly. “I’m showing our future client here how your new-fangled technology works. Show some respect, if you please.”

“I’m sorry,” Ment interjected. “Where are we? And what do you mean by ‘future client’?”

“He has misspoken, Mr. Delora,” the man in the blue suit replied. “He meant to say ‘investor’.”

“‘Investor’?” Ment asked. “What am I investing in?”

“My people’s technology, of course,” the man replied.

“What people would that be?” Ment asked.

“Aliens,” Glyph said with a smirk.