The vendor behind the glass counter looked at Luke, up and down. His large, holographic-lensed, glasses dominated the man’s face. The dense midnight-blue alien-bug projection of the glasses and the tendency to cock his head left, almost at ninety degrees, gave Luke the impression that the vendor was not unlike the crude depiction of a human typed on keyboards. Colon. Capital “i”: two dots and a black line on their side. The black line being the mouth, a thought Luke moved aside, looking down to focus on the glass counter. Luke surveyed the meat beneath the counter. A single long sheet of throbbing muscle-matter kept alive in the most basic sense of the word by pulsating electrodes and kept fresh by a thin layer of chemical fluid. The meat, Luke understood, had been grown in a vat. Manufactured from the basic components of biological fauna and containing little more than a few basic nutrients. The counter also had a subsection, for meat from animals, but Luke steered clear of that one. It was far too expensive. “Is the meat Syrch?” Luke enquired of the vendor. In reply a prompt, exaggerated, nod was offered. Luke excused himself a moment latter. Syrch always gave Luke ingestion.