6
“You look like you’re new here,” the bearded guy said, raising his voice above the discussions in the tightly-packed tables around them. He wore a polo shirt with a sharply creased collar, thin-lensed wire-rimmed glasses hanging from the bottom button.
Dale nodded. “First time.” He felt painfully aware of the tiny table a fraction of an inch directly behind him, the four youngsters sitting around it eating massive burgers and arguing compilers, cumbersome GCC versus the comparatively sleek Clang.
Dale’s innards grumbled uneasily. He clamped down. He was not going to start a tech conference by farting all over someone’s dinner.
“Great!” The bearded guy spoke English with a vaguely British accent. “Have a seat. I’m Brian, Brian Mallard. Maybe you can help us.”
The skeleton-skinny hair
