Transcription

[[Chris, Trish, Planck, Persephone, and Socrates sit in the narrow crawlspace behind equipment in the Grey ship's engine room. Chris seems baffled by what she's just heard.]]
Chris: [Confused] The... what of WHAT?
Planck: [Cheerfully] Friends of Fred! The official unofficial fan club of Fredrick Physarum, the greatest "slime mold" in this solar system!

Chris: Wait... Fred, the green Physaric? He... has a fan club?
Trish: [Smiling] And I'm th-the p-president!
Planck: And I'm vice president. The position of treasurer is still open, by the way...

[[Our view switches down to Persephone and Socrates. Socrates puts his "head" in his "hand".]]
Socrates: Sigh... I TOLD you, we don't NEED a treasurer. There's just the four of us, we have no income or expenses, and we don't even NEED money on this ship.

Planck: [Piously] That's where you're wrong. There's FIVE of us now. We're growing! We should start collecting dues.
[[Trish gives him a sharp, disapproving look.]]
Chris: [Baffled] Did... did I just get drafted...?