There’s a knock on the transplas door. My reflexes are jazzed so high that I’ve got my H & K out, and damn near almost squeezed off a burst before I see it’s the waiter with my lunch. He doesn’t twitch or faint or go for his own heat, so at least that’s some reassurance the one-way polarization works. The H & K goes back into its holster; I slide open the door and grab the fiberform tray covered with steaming food from the waiter’s hands. He opens his mouth—to ask for payment, probably—but I slam the door shut before he can get out the first word. Through the one-way transplas I see him shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, apparently trying to decide whether to knock again. Then maybe he figures discretion is the better part, and all that drek, and off he slouches.