[pshrynk]

"I am a very well trained typist, professor. You can probably use one in your line of work."

"Well, not really. I manage to hunt and peck my way through my papers quite well on my own."

This was not going well. But she had an entrance. She used all her skills aquired in the gambling salons of every riverboat on the Mississippi over all those years wasted on trying to make herself rich.

"Well, how about your notes and daily information? I have my own typewriter." She made amental note to steal the portable typewriter she had seen on Biggles' desk. It looke expensive, and above all, light.

"Gna!" said the pilot. If this was the extent of his vocabulary, she was happy that this was definitely not a Thing. He was
handsome, though.

"I mean, yes! I can certainly see the need for someone to type up all the the things you need to have typed up," said Armistice.

"But, my good fellow, you have no idea what it is that I am going to do."

"Well, it could be a good thing!"

"And I can cook," said Constance. Want to be able to cook, she thought. At least I can do toast. Most of the time.

Down near the floor, Vivaldi hiccuped and looked crosseyed. "Ooh, I feel a hangover coming soon," and then he collapsed.

Looking down at the prone form of the dog, Slopeton said, " Well, I've got a talking dog. I might as well have a transcriptionist along on my little venture."

Inside her head, Constance rejoiced. Only because she was getting her mission on track. Definitely not because of the pilot.
"By the way, I'm Armistice Walker. Who are you?"

"Oh, no one. Just an itinerant typist."