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"We're experiencing some technical problems, and will be closing the dining hall a tad early today. We apologise for the inconvenience."
There were, at his count, thirteen dead people lying in different states of non-animation across the dining hall floor. And he felt somehow vaguely responsible for it.

Which he could be, you could suppose, if you considered that the cause of the deaths of these various previously very animated people was the electronic waiter not unlike a handheld computer (had you mounted the handheld computer on a tripod with wheels, placed a small tuft of black hair on it's head and on the display screen in a fit of badly-aimed irony, and given it a (very ill-thought out, it turned out) spear.) In keeping with his mariachi band style of design, the engineer had been under the impression that this sort of thing was a nice touch for the dining hall. Granted, the spear might have been a poor idea, and he couldn't quite remember why he'd included it in the waiter's overall "look," though he did remember defending it vehemently to the board of investors in the Puerta del Sol (suspecting that he might have forgotten why he'd included it even then).
People shuffled, quite slowly, perhaps a little dazed, towards the doors. The bulk of them kept what they imagined was a safe distance from the waiter, making it an even more safe distance upon departure from the dining hall by taking the lifts four storeys up to the furthest possible point in the ship from the dining area, which just so happened to be the fitness centre.
For a few incredibly exciting minutes the fitness guru (who had been slumped on the counter of the welcome desk, prying keys off the keyboard of his oft-unused fitness computer) attempted to hand out towels and pamphlets on nutrition and how much better powdered pink-ish substances were for you than real food, the reception of which was followed by a few incredibly exciting minutes of the fitness guru arranging chairs for the erstwhile diners to sit down on and, for those of their number that had brought some of their food with them, finish their meals.

In the dining hall, the engineer managed a little, unconvincing, "Well, death by chocolate I could understand..." which trailed off when he realised he was talking to himself in a room occupied by a healthy amount of corpses and a machine that had lost it's sense of decorum by causing the bulk of the corpses to be as such.
He wasn't entirely sure the best approach to take with a handheld computer/waiter that was busily humming around, clearing off tables of the departing guests, tsking occasionally about food being left behind, and apparently with a restored sense of decorum, if only for the lack of subjects to be indecorous towards.
And so it went around, skirting the out-stretched limbs of people it had not too long ago done away with in response to a query for the 1) Chicken Kiev, 2) Pineapple ice cream, 3) Chicken Cordon Bleu, 4) a round of drinks (bottle of champagne and a glass of mineral water to shouts of disbelief turning quickly to shouts of being poked with a spear), 12) an enquiry after the loos, and 13) Chicken Cordon Bleu again.
The waiter stopped by, affectionately straightened the engineer's lapels, then carried on into the kitchen. He was hoping that he'd have a chance to sit the waiter down and talk with it before anyone else heard about the rather awkward situation the dining hall presented at the moment.
His pager went off.

disclaimer:
The quality of this disclaimer is hereby disclaimed.
Sane Magazine makes it's annual trip to the grand and glorious city of Worcester next week. There's an incredibly good chance we're going to use that as some excuse to either be early, late, or stupid with next week's issue.
Fans wishing to read the diary of the Head Editor on his jaunt through the "Pigs' Bladder City" as it isn't known, in search of the nefarious Pigeon of the Mount, you're going to have to wait until he publishes his memoirs.