[ For some people - on some worlds - anything and everything is a threat. Many of Maxwell's closest connections have lived their entire lives like that, always on edge, never trusting a single word or smile. They hold themselves tense and aloof from any soul who would get to know them. The only peace they'll ever find is in absolute solitude.

Maxwell, well, he considers himself different. He likes people. He wants to get to know them. That's why he learned early on how best to hide that particular brand of postwar paranoia.

Not that he can blame it all on the war, if he's honest. ]

And we were lucky to find it. Good stuff goes to the military, decent stuff goes to the stores, and the rats get to fight over the scraps the other two decided they didn't want.

[ He chuckles, his shrug cavalier. He's seen too many military outpost towns and occupied colonies to not be a little jaded about this inevitable progression of technology: from cutting-edge army rations to refuse in a matter of years. ]

Same old story, right?

[ Then Maxwell turns the can over. Nothing happens. It's completely congealed at the bottom of the can. ]

Slop fit for space if I've ever seen it, and they ain't even figured out air travel yet.