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Somewhere in the middle of the day, Quinn slipped out of the Bar- a little to think, a lot to work with the horse properly. His arm still throbs where the stallion bit it, a reminder that failing to take the animal's needs seriously has consequences. Fortunately, the work is done now, so Quinn is back. He's got a table near the entrance, well-lit (something's got to cast the shadows for all those dark corners, after all!), and he's got dinner. It's all good, really.

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Quinn had a few descriptions given him, and he's seen River; between these factors he's just about willing to take a chance. He rises to his feet, one hand up. "Excuse me-"

Simon slows, his attention caught.

"Yes?"

"Um, yeah," says Quinn. "Would you be Dr. Tam? My name's Quinn Abercromby..."

"Yes, I -- you're Quinn? My captain's mentioned you."

"Yeah? Not surprised." Quinn smiles a little. "been meaning to talk to you for a while now. Is this a bad time?"

"No, not at all." He comes closer, and tilts his head questioningly at the second chair at Quinn's table.

"Go ahead," Quinn says, and settles back into his own seat. "Can I get you anything, first off?"

Simon starts to politely decline, and thinks better of it. "Thank you. Whatever you're having."

Quinn nods and signals to one of the wait-rats; in this case, 'whatever you're having' is coffee. The good stuff, mind you, the sort that even someone who isn't hip deep in the detritus of twenty years of apocalypse can hold and live on the smell of.

There's sugar too, and cream, just in case.

"We don't get this back home," Quinn offers by way of explanation. "Tell you the truth, we don't get much of anything back home- but I expect Captain Reynolds likely told you that?"

He nods. "Next to nothing was how he phrased it, I believe."

"That's about the size of it," Quinn says. "I've got a community of a hundred and sixty seven human souls, twenty-five of whom are under the age of twelve. We haven't heard from any outside communities in two years. We've got one paediatrician handling medical care for the community; her name's Helen Leick, and she used to be head of childhood infectious disease at Alder Hey Children's Hospital. Our resources are twenty years' worth of scavenging and accumulating, a little bit of green stuff in the fields- and the sale money your captain was able to get for us. So, next to nothing, and a bloody lot of platinum. I'm to spend that on whatever supplies I can bring back, and while I've got a shopping list-"

He produces a folded piece of paper, on which Helen wrote her most desperate requests and needs.

"-I expect I can afford a bit more than that, and I was hopin' you could help me on that front."

Simon's been listening very intently, and now takes the paper and scans it.

"She's got the right idea about what's most important, medically speaking.... Are you planning on getting supplies from the bar itself?"

"More likely from a fellow named Lando Calrissian," Quinn says. "He's got contacts in his world who can sell in bulk. Seems like it'd be more practical that way."

He nods. "He'd know better than I would what's available in his world, but -- you might ask him about concentrated rations? They're shipped to border worlds a lot back home, where the colonies aren't quite self-sustaining yet."

Quinn considers this, then nods. "All right," he says, finding a pencil and grabbing one of the napkins to write on. "What else would you suggest? We're mostly an agricultural community, but it'll be a while before the vegetable crops are in. I'd like to keep the kids well-fed, in particular."

"I ... this isn't really my area of expertise --"

Simon pauses, and digs into his pocket, and comes out with his encyclopedia.

"It's not exactly a how-to book," he admits, "but there may be something useful in the entries on the outer colonies."

"Better than what we've got," Quinn admits. "We've been at the survival business ten years, but that's only 'cos we haven't had a choice. Anything in there that'd make it easier for us, I'd be bloody grateful for."

Several minutes spent over the encyclopedia, and by the end of it the list has expanded to just over three times its former length.

"...or the closest analogue they have," Simon's saying, as he writes down the last item.

Quinn runs a finger down the list and nods. "I think we can do this," he says. "I'll take this to Calrissian next time I see him. Thank you, Dr. Tam."

Then it's good we're helping.

"Good luck to you, Mr. Abercromby. And -- please let me know if there's anything else I can do."

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