Leaky barn. Because of their near escape, T'Pol and Quantum are now trussed like pigs, but separately. Quantum grunts -- he really should take a little something in water for that condition of his -- and T'Pol tries to gnaw at her bonds. Their jailer arrives, stylishly attired for an '80s revival in pink metallic M.C. Hammer parachute pants and a Richard Marx 'do, and tosses two plates of food at them. "We can't eat like this," Quantum says to Richard Marx's retreating back. He's ignored. "Friendly," Quantum comments, before twisting onto his side and picking up his bowl. We had an argument in my house as to what the food looks like. Mathra insists it looks like my spinach-artichoke dip, but I think it looks like a particularly repulsive bowl of Malt-O-Meal, something I abhorred as a kid and won't touch to this day. "Can you pick up yours?" Quantum asks T'Pol, who, on behalf of the entire viewing audience, looks at him with revulsion. "No," she tells him. Quantum plants his face in his bowl and roots around like a truffle pig. "Wouldn't you think in a case like this, even Porthos would have stuck his paw in and licked it off?" Mathra asks, closing his eyes and plugging his ears with erasers to block out the slurping spectacle. Quantum encourages T'Pol to eat, as she needs to keep up her strength. Vulcans can actually go for long periods of time eating very little. Like camels. And before I get more constructively critical emails, I know it's water for camels, not food. "So, eat! That's an order," Quantum says, mashing about in his trough some more. T'Pol tips to her side, sticks her finger in the bowl, and delicately licks the sludge off. But Vulcans loathe touching their food. Lest we forget the knife-and-fork breadsticks night? Quantum grubs about some more in his bowl and finds a small, round, flashing red light. Cool, there's a prize at the bottom of the slop. Actually, it reminds me of the homing device Ah-nold pulls out of his nose in Total Recall. "What's this?" Quantum wonders.