“Twenty-three skidoo to you too, muthahubba,” Paul muttered to the omni-pleasant voice that emanated from the tube’s bullet casing. One person, one route, one mission, get the fleshy bits from point A, the Reception atrium, to point B, whatever floor you worked on, you little plebian, you. As fate would have it, Paul worked on floor twenty-three. He did not have to tell the tubevator this, of course, it compared and contrasted his trex’s serial number with Paul’s registered assignment space. It was just, for the past two months, the damned thing kept saying “twenty-three skidoo” to him every time he was a minute or two late. It was a weird joke, he was sure, a prank pulled by some maintenance drone bored out of his nut, but he hadn’t the faintest idea what, exactly, it meant.