At the very front of the PGL Majestic's upper recreation deck sits a bar popular with PanGalactic Travel Company and Orbital Spa and Cruise pilots (as well as the occasional freelancer or off-duty NATO pilot) for its beautiful views of Curacao and the Cortez system. This is Gargle Blaster's (because Dave Sanders has a sense of humour), widely known to serve some of the best Sidewinder Fangs outside of Bretonian space (though not to pilots about to go on duty, naturally).
Various kitschy souvenirs and postcards (because the bartender Roger also has a sense of humour) adorn the walls and surfaces, from Denver snowglobes to holo-posters of the Bretonian Houses of Parliament and floating Kusari pictograms, to various smug "Wish You Were Here!" messages from the Luxury Liners Hawaii and Shetland, and Planet Baden-Baden. A miniature plastic model of a Luxury Liner hangs from the ceiling by a piece of thread, whizzing around in circles thanks to a small propeller.
The atmosphere in the bar is light-hearted and friendly, and Roger is always willing to listen to a yarn or provide one himself.
A strange man entered the tavern. His clothes were an odd cross-breed between a red tunic of sorts, some blue, worn-down jeans, a set of off-pair, black, fingerless gloves, and steel-tipped military shoes. His face was covered with unshaven stubble, but his short, brown hair was well cut.
He was new in here, and it showed. He didn't like being in here, and it showed as well. He was already somewhat drunk, but that didn't show. It could be smelled at close range, though. Having located the bartender with his piercing, black eyes, he approached, and sat down resignedly.
"I'm Guido, and I'm gay, but you're not my type. Bourbon." He sighed and placed a twenty-dollar note on the table.
"I'm Roger, and I'm not, but I don't really care. There." The barman put the drink down, and it disappeared.
"A bottle, Roger."
Roger considered the response. He refilled the glass, but neglected to leave the bottle on the table. "Now what's troubling you, mate?"
"No more shooting. No more surveying. No more staying off any stations for weeks at a time. They're making me a bloody civilian, that's what. Julie's pregnant with that fool, bless them both, and I'd be damned if I let them run around by themselves, but I'll miss the action. And I'll hate the tourists."
"They can't be that bad..."
"Roger. I hate everyone."
Roger considered the fact. "Tough."
"I'm going to sit in that corner, Roger. Keep them coming."
Guido slowly repositioned himself to an inviting table away from the prying eyes, determined to remain there for the night.
The celebration was not showing any signs of stopping, and the taps were flowing freely. Dave had given Roger instructions that drinks were on the house for any PanGal employee in attendance, given their recent listing on the Stock Exchange.
Douglas walked into the bar, or rather clicked. The High-heeled stiletto pumps he was wearing beautifully set off the finely tailored pin-striped suit and matched the colour of his tie. On his arm, the beautiful Dahlia Riche, his beloved wife. She had a hard edge about her, curly dark hair falling in ringlets about her face. But she still looked singularly stunning in her dress PanGal Captain's uniform.
"Doug," Dahlia whispered from the corner of her mouth. "You know I'm not comfortable with people."
"Relax Dhaling," Doug reassured scooping two glasses of champaign from a steward. "You haven't met the big Kahuna yet," he handed her a glass, "and I am sure he thinks I made up having a wife... though where he'd get that impression from?"
Doug shook his head, his heels clicking as he sashayed his way across the floor toward the Boss.
"Ahh, there you are," he said, grinning broadly in a way that made his goatee look a little devilish. "I'd like you all to meet Dahlia, I mean Captain Riche, she is the brains behind the Attenborough after all."
He looks around the room and back at the collected group of senior employees. "So when do we launch the twin-sisters? I have passengers chomping at the bit for a chance to ride twins..."
"Captain Riche, nice to finally meet you." Dave shook Dahlia's hand. "In answer to your question, Doug, we're still waiting on the assessment from DSE to fix up the Dionysus... Athena, should I say."
Dahlia had always been a shrinking violet, a person that was uncomfortable around large crowds. But she warmed to Dave immediately, shaking his hand, and returning to cradling her champagne glass against her lips, her eyes darting about.
Doug, dutifully, kept close to her, keeping on hand on her arm as support as he continued his conversation with his Boss.
"I was hoping to, err, talk to you about that, Dave," He said with a warm smile. "I know we've been suffering a bit of PR... how should we put it... PR fizzle... when we need a bit of PR-Razzle-Dazzle."
He gave a wolfish grin and sank a hand into his pocket, pulling out a very small candlestick, "I propose Mrs. White in the Library with the Candlestick!"
Douglas nodded, "Or more aptly, Dave, we could do cruise and a murder. Get the old Octogenarian's out for a little light theater and make them feel useful again. Just think about it," he took Dave by the arm and steered him towards the window.
"Murder on the Orient Express... while of course, we're flying up through Kusari to the Luxury liner Hawaii," he smiled broadly. "A little bit of luck and the right cast of actors and you could have a regular who-dunnit cruise for those would be armchair superslueths... the Mrs. Marples and Sherlocks out there."
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