He stabbed the holographic map with his finger: it stopped spinning, and the system he’d indicated pulsed. “How long to get there? Mrir? Mrir. How long to get to Mrir?”
The Polixaci agent didn’t even bother looking at the timetables. Through the translator he said, “Forty-seven standard days.”
He withdrew his finger. He’d lost Sol, where was Sol? Ok, there. He pointed to a system somewhat closer, and the map stopped again.
“Thirty-two standard days.”
“Where can I get in a week, round trip?”
Polixaci translators never sound annoyed or disgusted. '”Mars or Jupiter.”
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