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The corridor was irregular, widening out into large storage rooms, then narrowing to squeeze past the slipways, with all of the engineering in plain view. Massive fire doors, held open magnetically, stood every few hundred feet. Forklifts, pallet jacks, and people movers wound and zipped through the many pedestrians.
At slip fourteen two workers were spotting a fuel truck into place, blocking off the corridor in order to do so. Jack joined the gathering crowd, standing between to a trio of space suited welders on an electric cart and two hard-hatted engineers holding clip computers.
The truck driver set his brakes and wheels chocks, and his spotters released the crowd, which surged forward with Jack at its center. As they approached slip 16, he saw a group of officers gathered in front of it. One of them, a rotund man, suddenly bent over in laughter and Jack recognized him as the Roth’s purser.
Jack’s approach had been masked by the crowd, and he was no more than six feet from his officers when he was noticed. “It’s the skipper,” someone shouted, and they immediately fell mute, sober, prim, and correct.
“Mister Greenstreet,” said Jack, returning their salutes, “ladies, gentlemen. have we been given clearance to board?”
“No, sir, not yet,” said Mister Greenstreet. “I believe they are waiting for you.”
Jack stepped over to the gangway and touched his ID to the reader. The door did not open at once, but the reader’s light turned yellow.
After a minute, the door slid open to reveal one of the dockyard officers, a lieutenant, who traded a salute with Jack before speaking. “Lieutenant O’Brian? I am Seiler, of the dockyard.”
“I relieve you, Lieutenant Seiler.”
“I am relieved, Lieutenant O’Brian. You should find everything ship shape and ready for departure.”
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