A respectable looking, slightly overweight man walks into the VIP lounge.
"Morning Sophie. Hows tricks?"
"Well, well, well! If it isn't Cabover Pete. Now there's a sight for sore eyes. How is it with you, Mr. P? Last I heard you'd pulled up sticks and taken a permanent vacation."
"Yes well, nice as it is, retirement didn't particularly agree with me. Sitting on my keaster all day long... I figured, I can do that in a transport and make more money while I'm at it."
"Too true, too true."
"And all those new systems just been discovered... new trade routes, new opportunities to make a quid. Can't let the young fellas have all the fun."
Sophie regarded Pete's mid-section with surprise. "My word, Mr.P, but you're looking sharp. New clothes, not spattered with grease. And have you lost weight?"
Pete looked ruefully at himself. "Hmmm. On Gran Canaria, they seem to have an aversion to... fine cuisine, shall we say. Both eating it and wearing it. They also have an aversion to personal transport too; that is, besides old Shank's Pony."
"So retirement appears to have done you some good, at least."
"That's one way of looking at it, I s'pose."
"If you continue like this, you'll start giving my place a good reputation."
"We'll just see about that! Just soon as I get my old flight suit out of mothballs. And I don't suppose..."
Sophie made a wry grin. "Yeees, fryer's warming up, hon."
"Well in the meantime I better check in with the guvnor. How is he, still out fishing? And how's old Stuart and Rick, and Andrea, and that metal bloke from Rheinland. And has Derek managed to land that GC piece yet? Or got himself shot more likely..."
