By the time Spruance Del Curtin arrived at the Shepardsport dining commons, the place was already crowded and filled with a hubbub of people all talking at once. At least it wasn’t so bad that a line had formed just to get in and find a seat, unlike the days right after the cyberattack on Slayton Field. Of course it helped that the pilots’ table was relatively empty tonight.
Hardly surprising, if pilots from other settlements were no longer permitted to come up here to eat and socialize. Having to stay in BOQ down at the port facilities and have your meal brought by delivery robot would not be fun, but at least there was a decent lounge in that module, so they could hang out. It wasn’t like having to order your lunch to your desk three days a week because it was the only time you could squeeze in your office hours, like he’d had to do with his previous teaching responsibility.
On the other hand, would the pilots’ table be reduced to make room for more regular seating? It would make sense, but he could also imagine the Shepardsport pilots perceiving it as having something taken away from them.
As Sprue worked his way between the tables, he scanned for familiar faces as well as empty seats. Although regular seating was first-come first-served, people really didn’t appreciate having a complete stranger just drop in. Not to mention that the conversation might not necessarily be the sort you could jump straight into, since a lot of people tended to sit with other people who shared a specialty. The Medlab table was almost a formal assignment, although more because medstaff tended to have rather odd ideas of what constituted appropriate mealtime conversation. But dropping in on a table full of scientists or engineers all talking shop was a good way to spend a meal in confusion.
The station crew had never really developed a table of their own, although they did often sit with one another when they could. However, both Qunn Merton and Spencer Dawes were sitting at full tables, or at least tables where Sprue could tell he would not be overly welcome.
And then Sprue heard someone calling his name. Surprised, he turned to face one of his own clone-brothers. For an awkward moment Sprue fumbled before recognizing him: Chandler Armitage, adopted son of the former governor of New Hampshire.
“How about coming over and sitting with me? A bunch of the guys really want to hear your take on things.”
Unspoken because you’re with Shepardsport Pirate Radio, so you know things. Sprue cast a glance up at the head table, at the empty seat in the middle where Captain Waite usually sat. No, Sprue had not forgotten the awkward interview in the commandant’s office — had it only been a couple of days ago?
But to turn down a chance to sit at the pilots’ table? Not just the opportunity — appearing to slight a pilot’s invitation, and especially someone like Chandler, whose mother had been disappeared by the Administration, was not exactly the way to advance yourself around here.
Better to join Commander Armitage, and just watch his step. But how to sound like he was answering their questions while giving them no real information?