"Is there a spare?" Alan said.
Kurt sneered and jerked a thumb at his workbench, where another junction
box sat, bunny-ear antennae poking out of it. Alan moved it into his
tub. "Great," he said. "Tested, right?"
"All permutations tested and ready to go. You know, you're not the boss
around here."
"I know it," he said. "Partners." He clapped Kurt on the shoulder,
ignoring the damp gray grimy feeling of the clammy T-shirt under his
palm.
The shoulder under his palm sagged. "Right," Kurt said. "Sorry."
"Don't be," Alan said. "You've been hard at it. I'll get loaded while
you wash up.
Kurt sniffed at his armpit. "Whew," he said. "Yeah, okay."
When Kurt emerged from the front door of his storefront ten minutes
later, he looked like he'd at least made an effort. His mohawk and its
fins were slicked back and tucked under a baseball hat, his black jeans
were unripped and had only one conservative chain joining the wallet in
his back pocket to his belt loop. Throw in a clean t-shirt advertising
an old technology conference instead of the customary old hardcore band
and you had an approximation of the kind of geek that everyone knew was
in possession of secret knowledge and hence must be treated with
attention, if not respect.
"I feel like such a dilbert," he said.
"You look totally disreputable," Alan said, hefting the tub of their
access points into the bed of his truck and pulling the bungees tight
around it.
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