"Sure. Some of these guys, all they do is walk around looking at dials and writing stuff on paper. If it was me, I'd put 'em to work."
Retief strolled over to the gray-haired man, now scribbling before a bank of meters. He glanced at the clipboard.
Power off at sunset. Tell Corasol was scrawled in block letters across the record sheet. Retief nodded, rejoined his guard.
"All right, Jake. Let's have a look at the communications center."
Back in the car, headed west, Retief studied the blank windows of office buildings, the milling throngs in beer bars, shooting galleries, tattoo parlors, billiard halls, pinball arcades, bordellos and half-credit casinos.
"Everybody seems to be having fun," he remarked.
Jake stared out the window.
"Yeah."
"Too bad you're on duty, Jake. You could be out there joining in."
"Soon as the corporal gets things organized, I'm opening me up a place to show dirty tri-di's. I'll get my share."