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"Yeah, that's cool," Ralphie conceded.
"But what about my front teeth, and the back ones, too, some of em?"
     
                "I'm sure Sector will authorize the best
quality implants available," Magnan soothed the battered chauffeur.
     
                "How about me?" the fallen Bloorian
demanded "I guess youse loosened up a few o' my favorite molars, too,
which he clobbered me when I wasn't expecting—"
     
                "Calmly, my man," Magnan urged, taking
out his pocket recorder. "What was that name again?"
     
                "Yer want my mob moniker, my borned name,
my legal designation, my class tag, my CD handle, or what?" Magnan's new
client demanded. "Just put me down as Dock Noun; dat's my secret
sobriquet, on'y don't tell nobody."
     
                " 'Anybody'," Magnan corrected
sharply. "Very well, Mr. Noun, I shan't. As for your implants, I suppose I
could squeeze them in under GFU."
     
                "Put me down fer a set o' dem new
prosthetic limbs I heard about in Trivia Today, May issue, too,"
Dock added to his shopping list.
     
                "But there's nothing wrong with your
limbs!" Magnan gasped. "In fact, they seem unusually sturdy!"
     
                "Up till when I got savaged but now,"
Noun corrected. "Got dis baa hand. You accident'ly step on it, pal.
Anyways, I make duh nex' rumble wid five arms working, I'm a sensation. Maybe
six, OK?"
     
                "Ridiculous!" Magnan dismissed the
plea. "The CDT, and even GFU, is hardly in the business of bestowing
supernumary limbs on intransigent locals who have yet to produce His Ex's
throne-car!"
     
                "You want it back?" Noun inquired in a
tone of surprise. "Ain't going to do his Ex a whole lotta good—withouten
duh wheels and all. Boys dropped the power core unit, too, I guess."
     
                "Reassemble it at once and bring it
here!" Magnan commanded.
     
                Noun nodded. "And the old implants?"
he queried. "Get 'em in next week, right, before the big shindig?"
     
                "What 'shindig' is it to which you
refer?" Magnan demanded icily. "The GFU banquet was tonight.
     
                "Naw, its duh Old Boys Get-together,"
Dock corrected impatiently. "Alla boys out on parole'll be there, and we
always have rock-goat stew; tougher'n a tump-hide tarp. Kinda a virility symbol,
see, if a guy can chew it. Right now," he mourned, "I cun't chew
prime blurb-beast." He gnashed his gums to demonstrate his masticatory
deficiency.
     
                Magnan jotted. "Flint-steel
satisfactory?" he asked the surly fellow.
     
                "Sure," was the reply. "On'y
sharp, you know what I mean?" After a moment's pause he added:
"Might's well have the old power-chop attachment too, like I seen about
inna mag I found inna privy."
     
                As Magnan chatted with the local, a crowd had
been gathering in the street ahead. It parted, and the battered husk of the
Embassy limousine appeared, advancing slowly, pushed by half a dozen of the
blue-hided variant of the local Bloorian type.
     
                "Heavens!" Magnan exclaimed.
"They've reassembled it all wrong, Jim! Look, the steering wheel is on the
left front, without even a tire! And the jump-seats are on the roof! His Ex
will be furious! You know he likes to have Marvin and Herb in the jump seats,
directly in front of him, so he has someone handy to flay while stuck in
traffic! And there's no glass in the windows. They've put the rear fenders and
the deck-lid there instead. I daresay there are other discrepancies as well,
under the hood, if the hood wasn't wired to the rear. And why are they pushing
it?"
     
                "Duh boys found out it don't run so good
wid duh power cell out," Noun supplied.
     
                "Well, put it back!" Magnan suggested
tartly, as the