Space Station Seewich

The term ‘diner’ related to a piece of near-forgotten history; a public eating place where real food was served to real people.  Only a few diners remained in a few big cities.  Rocket Rod’s, on the Upper East Side, drew real people and others, served real food to occasional risk takers and standard fare to the supposed knowing.  Booth #3 had ordered 1,200 grams from menu tablet B, 800 from tablet C, with Lactose chasers. Within moments the waitroid delivered.  Simultaneously, the friends ingested a trio of orange-yellow 400 gram Egg-pills and two 400 gram Violet hams, easing the process by immediately slugging down the chasers.

“Good eggs, wouldn’t you say?” Etan commented.

“Run of the mill pills, I’d say.”

"I’m glad you called.  How long's it been, Hunter?"

"Just over two years now."

"Two years," Etan repeated.  “When’d you get in?”

"Day before yesterday, I think.  I've got a horrible case of space lag,"

“Listen, I hope you don’t mind us meeting here.  I found a book entitled Back to the Sixties at the Historical Literary Depository.   I thought it was about the 2060’s decade.  Funny, I was only a century off.  The work contained images of famous eating places that actually served edible plant life and cooked animal parts.  Some places had orange roofs, others golden arches, some were constructed of that gray aluminum alloy.  Then I came across this place.  I like the aura here...and the classical music...especially Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and that Little River Band.”

“I’ve never been to one like this before.”

"So it’s been two whole years, Hunter?   I must say, seems like you haven't aged a bit."

"I know. I’m amazed. They claim that space duty cuts the aging process, that time and distance equation.  I think it’s probably due to all that unfortunately clean living.  And I must say, Etan, you don't look so bad yourself."

"Yes, only for me it's the same old stuff.  I've never been in space; read a lot about it, but never been there.  You, you must have stories.  What's it like out there?"

"I suppose I could go on and on forever, maybe even write a book.  In two years, a lot happens."

"Look, we’ve got all night," declared Etan, eyes brightening.

"Speaking of night, how long are the Earth nights now, since the orbital alteration?"

"Long enough for a tale or two," Etan said with a grin.

So Etan and Hunter inhaled another hundred grams of this and a few hundred of that; chased by more cold Lactose, stirred, not shaken; occasionally taking time out to suck up a side of oxygen.

"Well, let me start at the beginning." Hunter paused.  "You remember when I got picked by the U.N. for the Earth's Interplanetary Customs Service?   They needed a new group to expand the rotation, two officers from each continent.  I was one of the lucky ones.  We all underwent accelerated space-orbital training after having met the ICS physical, logistic, and linguistic prerequisites.  It'll be two years next week the Space Shuttle Caveat launched us from Idlewild.  A few days and thrills later we docked at space station C-W-ISC-Delta 7, our new home away from home."

"I get confused with so many space stations floating around out there.  Which Delta is that?" Etan asked.

"It's number 7, the seventh of eighteen customs inspection stations.  We're responsible for inspecting all craft entering our sector and continuity sequence destined to Earth.  The S-W-Delta series stations handle supply and repair operations.  They're the biggies.  The M-W-Delta stations are lifeguard facilities.