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The door of every Wishing Well franchise is inch-thick hydrosteel, artificially pock-marked with laser fire. To license a franchise, owners have to meet the standards laid out in the franchising agreement. Those standards seek to recreate the features of the original Wishing Well on Ur-23, down to the very last bolt. It's a futile effort. None of them quite manage the serene appeal of their progenitor.
The door of the Wishing Well in Egypt orbit swings open and a haggard middle aged man with green skin walks in to find a bar in chaos. A light flashing behind the counter announces that station security is on its way. Chairs have been dislodged from their spots, flung around willy nilly. As the man surveys the room, he tracks the center of the disturbance: two Sheep-Men locked in a wrestling clinch. Behind the bar, a short, dark-haired woman stands near the flashing light, a laser pistol in her hand, screaming at the top of her lungs for everybody to calm down.
In an instant the newcomer is on top of the Sheep-Men, pulling them apart with an energy and ferocity that seem unexpected. Seconds earlier he had seemed worn-down, exhausted from his travels. Now he has come alive. A powerful blow to the head sends the first Sheep-Man unconscious. The man shoves the other Sheep-Man away and he takes the cue to flee the bar, baaing angrily.
The dark-haired woman stops shouting. "Thank you, gentleman. Station security should be here soon to take away Jobi. You might want to hide in the back until they're gone."
He laughs a rough and hoary laugh. "What will you tell them happened to your brawlers? They knocked each other out?"
"Don't you worry about that. If they catch you up here, they'll send you back down to the surface. I'll cover for you. I owe you that much."
It seems to startle him. "They'll send me back down. Of course. Because I look like a Canaanite. Yes, you're right, I'll accept your invitation to hide out back. I'm not going back down to Egypt anytime soon."
