After we finish the jug of Bumsnirphle's, I poke MacWillie with an elbow.

"Sooooo, your MacWillieness, are there parts left for Box to make our new stuffs?"

She waves a hand expansively over the remaining salvage from the starfly, Huckens snoring lightly against her broad shoulder. The three Builders stare enviously from their posts around the forge site.

"Of course, young Sky. I'm not so cruel as to send you on a salvage trip solely to whet me own thirst. If your Box is a true combat variant, it's no doubt calculated an optimal redistribution of yon wealth."

"Box does like to make numbers go up," I giggle. "Shoulda been a, a, calculator, or an abacus thing. Beads go click clack up."

The only reason I am allowing these alterations to your neurological function is because I cannot wait for you to wake up tomorrow morning. And yes, I have some recommended specifications.