Tiny chuckled to himself as he brought out the chosen meal for the petite Louisianan sitting at the corner of the bar, the rest of the occupants having calmed down, slightly, content to go back to telling bad jokes and tall tales for the time being. Silently, he continued to clean the glasses, filling them as needed, but his mind was distant, remembering years ago over the Trenches of France.<br/><br/>Outside, the Telephone office was a fair walk distant from the Zeppelin hangars, its only real landmark being the sixty-foot tall pole standing at the back of the office; it served as a handy landmark, and deterrence to low-flying pilots; before the office had been established, which implicity gave the Haven a sense of pseudo-legitimacy, several barnstormer stunts had ended with planes tangled in the myriad criss-crossing of thick power lines and strafing cables covering the town like a net of steel and copper.<br/><br/>The postmaster in the office was a sharp contrast to the ramshackle and cobbled-together appearance of the rest of Sky Haven; wearing the dress blues of a Bell stationmaster, he looked to be the epitome of professionalism, setting aside his pipe and newspaper when the door opened to allow Miss Lamarr into the small station. "Good Afternoon, Miss. Telegrams, Postage, and Wire services are all available today."