Superiority. Contempt.

This 'mysterious gap' may be connected to the Grand Lich's arrival. You should investigate.

Old pilots? He must be referring to the table of nattering old men you passed on the way here.

His only source of relief is the sweat seeping into the fabric of his wind-whipped collar.

Stop. Scent of prey. Pupils dilate.

He may be delusional, but he's not attempting to deceive. He believes every word.

Especially him.

If you want to use the phone you're going to need to dislodge him first.

You suspect this is going to cost you another drink at least.

Hopefully he hasn't completely passed out yet.

Oskar Metamoto... the Party Alley casualty.

May be time to make a visit to the Party Alley tailor.

Engaging with the flesh is pointless. This problem demands a more elegant techno solution.

Immediate terror. Real, unfeigned, unkinky terror.

It takes all his strength to negate what the model train is doing to him, but it has already had its effect. Pliancy increased tenfold.

His eyes skimmed right over it, almost as if it wasn't there.

An intervention.

Witness his true form emerge: A spittle-licker, specially bred to feel utter contempt for anyone below them and pants-wetting fear of anyone above.

He thinks he's about to be dismissed.

A cryptonym. Meaning...

You've wrung what you need from this limp rag. Time to move on.

You already know her name. It rang out to you across the noumenal plane.

It may be time to reconsider the wiretapping solution.

You've already located RADIAN. Get him back on his medication and he'll surely make short work of this task.

You know this man's connected with EMTERR. He may be one of the two negotiators you've caught wind of.

This man matches the description you've received of one of the two EMTERR negotiators said to be handling this 'secret treaty'.

He's been going on about this mysterious gap for a while. It may be time to get to the bottom of it.

Pre-orgasmic tremors jiggle the padded shoulders of his jacket.

Metamoto did say his junior 'Frederik' would be under a great deal of stress.

So this is what the 'miracle' looks like first hand.

Could this have anything to do with the 'sensuous' phone card you found on PSEUDOPOD?

He practically clings to it, like a shipwreck-survivor holding onto a piece of driftwood.

His glasses are half-fogged from the sweat beading on his upper lip.

His tie is loose, beads of sweat glint off his neck. A desperate odour emanates off him.

They're even more expensive than the vending machines in the airport at Treffe, on your way here.

THE BITTER ICHOR OF POVERTY.

If the world would deny us even these small pleasures, then we should deny the world its ill-gotten cash.

All that separates you from the cash inside is a little lock. This should be easy.

You need a tubular lockpick for this. Something like...

All that separates you from the cash inside is a little lock. Shame you don't have a lockpick.

Overdo this and you risk a note that reads 'kleptomaniacal tendencies' in your personnel file.

Selflessly giving up his own prized possession to bring joy to a neurologically challenged young lady.

Resin cabochon and palladium finish. Worth several hundred sols.

She's got pens to spare -- we don't. Let's nick it.

The Trust merely recognising her hard work. Nothing unsavoury here, as far as she's concerned.

OF COURSE. SNAKE PEOPLE HAVE NO NEED OF LUXURY PENS, WHAT WITH THE LACK OF LIMBS.

Her sponsor... the Civilisation Trust. The blank space there gnaws away at you.

She will notice the missing pen in four days, but never once suspect you.

A strange cadence, uneasy syllables stumbling over a sloshing beat.

She sounds quite drunk.

Checks