<strong>Nathan Maddoc</strong><div class="floatright">(http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7041/6784901344_8e4803feaa_m.jpg)</div><br/><em>Sunday Night – Captain's Steakhouse</em><br/><br/>He'd eaten his fill, yet enough of the well-done steak remained on Nathan's plate to rebuild at least half a cow. He pushed the meat around disinterestedly, having polished off the sides. Nate wasn't sure whether it was nerves or the sheer quantity of the food that had quashed his appetite. Then again, he'd never been a huge fan of beef; having grown up on a dairy farm, he'd had enough to last a lifetime, and found it a bit cloying on the palate. He found himself thinking wistfully of the home-cooked meals he'd enjoyed on previous nights at the Goddard farm; Jane Goddard knew how to set a mean table. But with his plans for tonight, he'd decided to come into town to eat, and New Harrisville offered few options beyond the Captain's Steakhouse.<br/><br/>Most of the clothes he'd brought from home were hardwearing and grubby, suitable for rooting around in the fields, taking soil samples, cuttings from crops and repaying the Goddards for their hospitality by assisting with the innumerable chores that kept a farm running, but tonight he wore his neatest shirt and had painstakingly scrubbed the muck and seeds from his jeans so he looked reasonably presentable. His naturally wavy brown hair was obedient, and stayed messed and pricked up with no more attention than wet fingers run through it, and his blue-grey eyes were bright in his boyishly handsome, yet ruggedly weathered face.<br/><br/>“What's the matter, son? Too charred for ya?”<br/><br/>The Captain, proprietor and head chef was a local character, Nate gathered. A Vietnam vet with an eyepatch and shaggy grey shoulder-length hair, he'd given the New Zealander a disapproving Cyclopic look when he'd ordered the steak well-done; the Captain was one of those who considered any meat not pink and dripping to be ruined. There were few other diners on a Sunday night, and he'd ambled over to Nate's table.<br/><br/>Glancing up from the plate, the visiting Kiwi scientist grinned. “No, it was great. Just a generous portion,” he said, slapping his stomach with a muscular<em>thwap</em>. Farm work and rugby had given him a solid physique, and a high metabolism and good understanding of nutrition kept it trim and firm. He leaned back, fishing his wallet out of a pocket. It was thick with greenbacks; for what he had planned later in the evening, he suspected he'd need lots of ready cash. He drew out several bills, frantically calculating the appropriate tip; it wasn't as predominant a custom in New Zealand as in the US, and he wasn't sure what was right for a restaurant. 10%? 20%? He opted towards the high end; there were a lot of photos of the Captain posing with military weapons and hunting trophies on the walls.<br/><br/>Laying down the money, Nate pushed himself out from the table and checked his watch. “Thanks for the grub, mate, but I've gotta get going.” He lifted his chin in a reverse nod of acknowledgement, standing, shaking the Captain's hand and made his way to the door.<br/><br/>Stepping out into the cool night air, Nate felt the busy, chirupping silence of the American heartland spread around him, and slung his jacket over one shoulder. He dipped a hand into his pocket and retrieved the scrap of paper that had been given to him, studying the address – or rather the directions, as it seemed to refer to somewhere out in the fields, beyond the usual system of road names – under the steakhouse's outside lights. Well. There was no time like the present...