“I’ve just arrived,” said the space janitor.
“Obviously,” said the being behind the podium.
The being behind the counter had some British Bulldog predominating in his genealogy. The classic line, late 20th century. Deliberately designed to have breathing problems. The Space Janitor made a quick check of the Bulldog’s photographic ID. It revealed the Bulldog’s name to be Hinkel. Seemed to be nearing the end of his life. His face had drooped down showing the blood-red bed of his eyes.
“What’s my purpose?” the space janitor said, not thinking. He looked around, while many ships had come in this did not look like the main spaceport area.
“You having a laugh?” Hinkel asked from behind his podium, “Look at your badge.”
The space janitor looked at the ID badge attached to him.
“Opult? Who’s that?” asked the space janitor.
“Turn it the other way round you mangy mutt.” said Hinkel. The podium wobbled under his weight. Buttons heaved on the stained blue shirt.
The space janitor craned his head to get a better view. As in to say, he looked at it the right way round. There he was. At least, he would have to assume it was him. Something from within the space janitor, a voice, told him to trust what he saw. No one would give out false information in this case.
What would they have to gain?
The janitor made eye contact with a still image of himself. Brown and white fur all over. Floppy ears upright. Eyes, big and bulging. More than he would have liked. How did they remain seated in his skull? His Tongue hung lopsided to the left. The janitor was glad that he was on the inside looking out. He was glad he didn’t have to look at himself.
“Are you finished admiring yourself?” Hinkel leaned in.