"Yes, sir," someone murmured.
"... was seated next to Charles Lathrop, who had escorted her to the banquet, in the absence of the Captain. They danced frequently to the strains of the Deimos Orchestra which was rocketed here for the pro—"
"That's enough," said Hastings, staring whitely.
The mechanic took two steps toward him. "Is something wrong, sir? You look ill."
"Not at all, Mr. Kitson, not at all." His eyes snapped back to the man in front of him, astraddle a newborn idea. "I was merely considering Peeping Toms, Mr. Kitson."
"Beg pardon, Sir?"
"Peeping Toms. Never heard of them, have you?"
"No, sir. I don't think any of us have."
"What a pity. A most fascinating subject. Found in a twentieth century history of the minor vices."
"Yes, sir."