A blonde, steely-eyed Terran in red spandex trousers and a dark maroon tunic, cinched at the waist by an all-purpose Space Rovers utility belt, his shoulders bright with pips and his chest emblazoned only by the double-barred golden jumping catfish emblem of the Loyal Confederation of Galactic 'Cats, steps quietly onto the bridge and orders a vacuum-jar of Vilix Brownius, the best foul brew known in this quadrant of the Galaxy.

"Howdy, Miss C.! Where we bound? You ever hear from that Arcturan spice rancher you were gonna go hitch up with? Y'know, if you ever change yer mind, I have some nice property out on Deneb Sixteen looking for some good management. But I know your heart's here on the old ME. I respect that. I could never leave this old bucket of cosmic bolts myself..."