Why, it's my interrupting friend, ´®†Ωß∂£¢§∞. I'd ask him how he's doing, but he'd just jump in and tell me. And truthfully, no one really cares. Oliver knows. Even if we run down the old chum, onwards to the galactic Kwik-E-Mart. We will see how many space wieners the atomic coin is worth.

The Kwik-E-Mart floated in the outer belt like a lost tooth. Apu was not Apu here. He was something older, something that had been minding the register since before the concept of a register existed. He took the atomic coin between two fingers and held it up to the ultraviolet glow of the hot dog rotisserie.

"This," he said, "is worth eleven space wieners and one question you may not want answered."

Lemont Cranston, wealthy man about town, accepted the wieners with the dignity they deserved. The question he tucked into his breast pocket for later. Questions like that had a way of going off.

´®â€ Ωß∂£¢§∞ was already talking. He had, in fact, never stopped. The universe had simply arranged itself around his monologue like water around a stone. Oliver sat outside on the hood of the void, eating the eleventh wiener, which had been a gift, or possibly a warning.

"The unblinking eye sees all," Lemont said to no one in particular.

"Including," said Apu-who-was-not-Apu, "your browser history.