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. "Got any place I can spit?"
The receptionist glanced up, eyes narrowed in disgust, but she had located his name on the calendar and was therefore obligated to add the Wiedermann warmth to the Wiedermann smile, which had, unfortunately, slipped slightly.
"I'm sorry for the confusion, Mr.... Xris. You are to see Mr. Wiedermann."
Xris continued to chew reflectively. "Wiedermann himself, huh? I'm impressed."
"That is Mr. Wiedermann the younger," clarified the receptionist, as if, yes, Xris should be impressed but only moderately. "Not Mr. Wiedermann the elder. Please proceed to the eighteenth floor. Someone will meet you there, escort you to Mr. Wiedermann's office. Put this badge on your pocket. Wear it at all times. Please do not take it off. This would activate our alarm system."
Xris accepted the badge, clipped it on the pocket of his fatigues. "About that janitor's job..." he began conversationally.
"I'm sorry for the mistake," the receptionist said coldly. The Wiedermann smile could have, by now, been packaged and frozen. "Please go on up. Mr. Wiedermann doesn't like to be kept waiting."
She answered a buzz from the commlink. She didn't like being around cyborgs, even the well-oiled.
The cyborg circled her desk to reach the lifts. The receptionist was talking to a prospective client. A touch of metal on her shoulder made her jump, flinch, so that she accidentally disconnected the call
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