"Mister Hansen. The Eureka isn't scheduled for docking in this bay. Is there any reason why you'd be scurrying about these dank crevasses?"
Chuck eyes the tech -- or whoever he is -- and guiltily tucks the bag of malteasers into his sweatshirt pocket. He had stashed the candy in the catwalks of the bay ages ago, and this is his last little hoard. He'd have to talk to the Russians about getting more later.
"No reason," he sniffs. "Just havin' a bit of a walkabout."














