Outside the porta-home, Sunday night

Artie was . . .

standing still?

He wasn't even posing.

He was just stading outside his porta-home, looking up at the sky, his hand held close to his jaw.

He seemed to be talking to himself, which was appropriately Artie-ish. . . .

No, wait, look a little closer. . . .

Yes. See that? On his hand? That's right, the bug.

He was talking to the bug.

About the constellations.

It's good to know someone was looking out for the education of bugs.

Outside the porta-home by the docks, Monday afternoon

Artie seems to be properly recovered from his encounter with the mayor. Indeed, his spirits are lifted, he's enjoying life, and everything appears to be pipe.

He's currently seated on nothing by a Krebtego board set up on a pedestal by the water, studying the pieces intently.

His opponent?

His little buggy friend from last night.

Who is really much friendlier than that unpipe mayor.