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had been like that all evening. The eggs were bright and shiny, the beans glistened like rubies, and the chips were the crisp golden brown of sunburned bodies on expensive beaches. Harga's last cook had turned out chips like little paper bags full of pus.
Harga looked RIGHT.
Harga decided not to argue.
'Well, you're doing a damn fine job in there, boy,' he said.
WHAT is IT CALLED WHEN YOU FEEL WARM AND CONTENT AND WISH THINGS WOULD STAY THAT WAY?
'I guess you'd call it happiness,' said Harga.around the steamy cafe. No-one was watching him. He was going to get to the bottom of this. He rapped on the hatch again.'Alligator sandwich,' he said. 'And make it sna —'The hatch shot up. After a few seconds to pluck up enough courage, Harga peered under the top slice of the long sarny in front of him. He wasn't saying that it was alligator, and he wasn't saying it wasn't. He knuckled the hatch again.'Okay,' he said, I'm not complaining, I just want to know how you did it so fast.'TIME IS NOT IMPORTANT.'You say?'
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