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to the Fresh Air Restaurant proved a wholly unpleasant experience. The Brevari left a sickly sensation in the pit of his stomach, and Vance now understood why Londo advised him to keep drinking the stuff. He couldn't wait for the hangover. The shuttle stopped in Green Sector, and Vance stepped off. The Fresh Air Res taurant waited at the end of a trail of well-dressed couples and exotic-looking aliens. The restaurant itself rested next to the hydroponic area, and the resulting smell was the most refreshing Vance had experienced since boarding the station.

Vance glanced down at his watch once more: 1907. The Colonel wouldn't like that one bit; he hated tardiness. Taking a deep breath in the vain hope it would clear his head, Vance marched up to a man with greasy hair and an expensive-looking tuxedo. 'Excuse me,' said Vance, trying his best to sound sober. 'I have an appointment to see Colonel Vance. We have a table booked for seven.'

The man stared at Vance nonplussed. Vance raised an eyebrow. 'What are you telling me for,' said the man. 'Who do you think I am, the maitre'd?' With that the man walked past Vance and left the restaurant.

The sudden ominous sound of someone clearing his throat made Vance turn slowly. The frowning face of his father glared at him from a table not ten feet away. Vance smiled and nodded. The Colonel continued to frown. 'Are you going to sit,' he asked, 'or continue to harass the other customers?'

Vance marched forward, trying his best to appear sober. So far it seemed to be working. He sat opposite his father and leaned on the table. 'Elbows,' said the Colonel. 'You're not in the mess hall now.'

Childhood memories flooded back as Vance re-lived a thousand dinner table scoldings. As much as he tried to resist obeying his father, he
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