"You've got to be kidding me," McLellan groaned as he surveyed the rusted heap of scrap duranium that was generously being called a ship. "This thing looks like it might have been spaceworthy, back when my grandpa was a cadet."
"I'll have ye know," the captain slurred, visibly intoxicated, "she'zh c'mpletely... shhpashworthy! A... a hund'rd percent, in line wit' revalationz."
"Regulations, sir," corrected his first mate, the only one on board with a visible trace of Terran blood.
McLellan's eyes trace the lines of the ship's engine housing, which looked incapable of containing air, let alone gamma radiation, and gave a nod that indicated about as much faith in that statement as he'd have in a three and a half credit bank note printed on papyrus. "And pray tell, what system's 'regulations' is this rustbucket in line with?"
The captain drew a breath and seemed as if he was attempting to gather what passed for his sobriety. "The Crusoe has a current inspection sticker issued by Proxima Centauri," he said in a rare moment of coherency. "It was issued just ten galactic standard days ago."
The first mate nodded, giving her captain a fractional second of a warning look, one which McLellan almost missed. "I see," McLellan went on, casually making notes on his archaic plastipaper notepad with a holopencil. "And, uh, where was this inspection sticker bought?"
"Lupus Station in the Wolf 359 system," the captain answere dproudly. His first mate cringed, seemingly more aware of what her captain had just admitted.
"I see," McLelland repeated. "And pray tell, how much did it cost you to forge a Proxi-Cent inspection sticker in Wolf 359?"
The captain blinked. "W... wha...? I ain't forged nothin'," he insisted. "The agent at te stayshun... he forged it." He nodded somberly, as his first mate hid her face in her hands.
McLellan folded up his notepad. "Well thank you, captain, for that confession. I'll be issuing you a citation for a forged inspection sticker. Oh, and, uh... I'm afraid I'll have to impound your ship." With a quick and disdainful look around, he added, "whatever's left of it."
The captain unleashed a string of epithets in the hissing, Saurian language of his own people before demanding, "and how in the cold, airless vacuum of Hell am I sh'poshed to get home without my ship?"
McLellan shrugged. "Well, you could walk. From the look of this hull, it'd be safer than trying to fly home in this thing." With that, McLellan tore a piece of plastipaper off of his notebook and handed it to the captain. "You can pay the fine and the impound fee at the office on Earth any time within the next thirty galactic standard days. Give them the name of the agent who forged the inspection sticker and they MIGHT let you have this rustbucket back to fly home in, though I doubt it'll get you there." As the captain foamed and frothed, McLellan stepped through the airlock and back into the garish white lights of Hawking Station. "I should've gotten a real job," he muttered.
