Yrtl sat in the Atomworks canteen and prodded doubtfully at his veet-meat: grown in a nutrient-tank for 30 days, and sure as hell looked like it. Outside, the urban sprawl of Juno Station clung like a plaque to the surface of the moon.

“So, whadya score?” asked Lynt, devouring his lunch unflinchingly.

“’Bout 10,000 creds,” Yrtl confessed.

“10,000!” Lynt giggled, “Whad’ya do – commit murder? No, wait, you dirty dog – I know. Hey Murt!” he called across the table. “Saw Glenda at the aeropool yesterday…” He made the appropriate whistle. Half a dozen guys scowled as the idea hit them, their plants registering the impure thought. Lynt, immune to such temptation, just grinned.

“Another 1000 creds you owe me,” muttered Yrtl, dwelling on the image and thinking, might as well enjoy it, if I’m gonna be paying for it.

“That explains why you were so late,” noted Lynt.

“Not just that.” Yrtl described what happened in the Autofess booth.

“So?” said Lynt, “You got a little a FaceTime – ya musta sinned real bad.”