The dock master scowled, waving a battered sheet of paper in the general direction of the man he assumed was Commander Mason Ralusch, the creases in his forehead deepening with each flutter of the sheet.
"Look Sir, I've got three hundred litres of H-Fuel sitting out there. Pilot says he's been there for two hours. I can't keep him all bloody day! That brick of a transport's already holding up patrols. Delta was supposed to leave twenty minutes ago.
It's addressed to you. So just sign for the damn thing would you, Sir? Unless you want to tell the Captain why his men are sitting around twiddling their thumbs."
He paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. A futile effort, the man was practically dripping.
"Oh, yeah. Came with a note too. Read the thing, no-one else has, if it'll get that fuel out of my dock."
Mason looked at the aggravated dock master with a hint of confusion. He didn't ever handle fuel orders or any for that matter. He read the order carefully, having no doubt the delivery was indeed for him. 'I didn't or-,' Mason cut off, as the dock master hastily shoved the accompanying note in his hand.
Reading the note carefully two times over, Mason gave a soft chuckle, before signing off on the delivery.
'Even.' Mason said to no one in particular.
The dock master was in too much of a hurry to care about Mason talking to himself. As far as he was concerned, the man had always been a bit of a weirdo anyway. All he wanted was to get that fuel unloaded at last and his docks cleared.
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