“My problem,” Cron said slowly, trying not to raise his voice – he had a shrillish sort of voice for a man with a frame so large, which embarrassed him. Thus he tried to keep his temper under control not because of any sort of self-control – Cron had no interest in either self discipline or common courtesy – but because he wanted to project more of an image of competence. “My problem,” he repeated, “is that I’m stuck here with a shrew who wants me to act outside of my interests, instead of in a seedy bar somewhere picking up wanton wenches.”

Cron was certain he could hear Vasheena’s teeth grind. He grinned. Victory for him for getting under her skin so quickly. Granted, it wasn’t necessarily difficult. Vasheena seemed perpetually in a prickly mood. For better or for worse, however, his back was turned to her and his grin failed to further exasperate the situation.