Later, Sam is giving Skelton his marching orders on the stakeout. Skelton's only reservations about the plan seem to be what Carling will think of it. Not very highly seems to be the verdict. And so we are granted some insight into Carling's very obvious animus toward Sam -- he was in line for a promotion until Sam came along. Also, he hates it when people point out his failure to master literary devices like analogies and metaphors. Drives him right up a tree. Anyway, Sam hands Trent his walking papers and Trent snippily says his goodbyes. "All hail the Nixon administration," he sneers. "Don't get too attached," Sam mutters. Indeed. Now go put on some pants, mister.
Before Sam can flee the holding area, though, a series of beeps and blips catches his attention. He turns around just in time to see a miniature robot scuttling across the floor and into a cell, but when he chases after it -- it's no longer there. More fodder for the chalkboard, my man. Sam's awoken from his latest mental episode when June taps on his shoulder. Say, June, you didn't happen to see something dart across the floor, did you? June supposes it was a rat. Maybe -- if they produced mechanical rats in 1973, which they very well might have. June was down here cleaning out the cell, as Trent did correctly peg that vomit odor he mentioned earlier. Sam says that he's sure the next prisoner will thank her for her efforts. Throughout this entire scene, June calls him "Sir" -- it gives their relationship a real Peppermint Patty-Marcy vibe. (Kids, ask your parents.)
We cut to the next day, with a shot of the World Trade Center -- never ceases to be exploitative, so you keep on keeping on, Life on Mars producers. Sam is at his apartment floor's communal bathroom, getting ready to relieve Skelton and Carling on the stakeout and staring at his dual reflections in the cracked mirror -- because he's through the looking glass, people! -- when what to his wondering eyes should appear but a naked chick... I'm sorry. I can't complete the rhyme. I'm too busy staring at the naked chick. Sam, to his credit, is trying to gallantly avert his eyes from any naughty bits that might incur an FCC fine. Anyhow, the naked chick's name is Windy, from Iowa, and she's what you might call a free spirit. Or a walking train wreck. Or a bad idea waiting to happen. Your pick. I'm going with Windy. It's easier to type. She talks about how she sends messages to loved ones that she misses through the clouds -- which sort of intrigues Sam -- and asks if he's into dancing -- which doesn't intrigue Sam a bit. Anyhow, Windy tells Sam she'll see him around. Not if he sees you first -- all of you. Because you are naked. And about 100 times more interesting than that guy in the Speedo.