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Diurnia Salvage and Transport on the door. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and entered.
    Inside the door was a dingy foyer. A counter ran almost the entire width of the space with a door against the far bulkhead to allow access behind the counter. A couple of chairs—looking plastically forlorn—waited for visitors in one corner, and a plastic tree lurked in the other. It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting, in terms of corporate office.
    Behind the counter a clerk spoke into a voice headset hanging from his left ear. He looked up when I stepped in and smiled in greeting. He held up his index finger in a “hold on” gesture.
    “Yes, sir, the Geordan VanTassle is due in later today. That container should be at the terminal in about…”—he consulted the clock on his monitor—“three stans and the ship is scheduled to dock by 18:00” He paused then, listening to something on the other end. “Yes, sir, thank you for calling DST. Please let me know if we can be of any further assistance.” He disconnected and crossed to the counter.
    “Good morning, sar. Welcome to Diurnia Salvage and Transport. How can I help you?” he asked with a pleasant smile.
    “Good morning. My name is Wang. I’m here about a third mate’s berth.”
    “Of course, Mr. Wang, we’re expecting you.” He stuck his hand across the counter in an offered handshake. “Call me Bitters, with an ‘s’. While many might think me bitter, that’s not my name.”
    He rattled it off in a well-practiced stream accompanied by a lopsided grin. While I shook the right, his left hand pressed a button under the counter, and the door on the end buzzed.
    “Come on back, and we’ll get this going.”
    I walked through the door and Bitters took me into the inner sanctum. He stuck his head into an inner office and said, “Mr. Nelson, Ishmael Wang is here.”
    “Thank you, Bitters. Please show him in,” came a voice from the open door.
    Bitters stepped out of the way and swept an open hand palm up toward the door. “Mr. Nelson will see you now.”
    He had a funny sense of drama about him, and I smiled as I walked through the door to the cluttered cubby. There was barely room for the desk and two chairs in the cramped space. The man behind the narrow desk rose and didn’t have to reach far to extend his hand to me.
    “Good morning, Mr. Wang,” he said warmly.
    I shook the hand and murmured some greeting in return.
    “Please have a seat.” He indicated the only chair on this side of the desk. “Let’s get this ship into space.”
    In surprisingly short order I found myself trotted through the various forms, requirements, orientations, and associated minutiae which I hadn’t expected, but in hindsight, should have. He ran through the various contract clauses—all standard, which I recognized from my semester on legal practices—and summarized my pay and benefits—again, all standard. The pay was within norms. It wasn’t what anybody would call a “princely sum” but was still about two hundred credits a month above what I knew to be the average. It wasn’t a lot more, but certainly a welcome addition. In hindsight, I might have negotiated for more, but I was happy enough with the deal. I remembered that some of my classmates were still looking for berths when I left Port Newmar, so I felt fairly well disposed toward this one.
    With the last of the administration work done, and the contracts thumbed and validated, Mr. Nelson rose once more and offered a hand in dismissal.
    “You’ve got an appointment up at medical for your physical, and after that, you’re good to go, Mr. Wang. If you have no further questions…?” his voice trailed off.
    “No, none,” I said, shaking his hand.
    “Very well, then, assuming there’s nothing odd in the physical—and really—it’s just a formality for our insurance records, we’ll have you report to Captain Rossett on the William Tinker at dock nine in the morning.”
    I was faintly