He selected and checked a suit for fit, fresh fluids, air and communications. Climbing in and closing up, he stepped under a helmet rack, drew it down, rotated mating surfaces, closed and locked the seals. The automatic self-test devices hummed pressure checks, and indicators glowed as the life support systems balanced internally. The suit inflated, held for several seconds, and subsided to normal. A tiny light above the inside visor glowed green to show status as ready.
Passing through the outer air lock Zolan turned toward a line of flitters. A guard watched him approach, rifle held casually across his chest.
"OK," said the guard when Zolan was within five meters. "Hold it there. What's on your mind?"
"Name's Zolan. I need a long range flitter for a hop into the outback."
"Let's see your authorization."
"What authorization?"
The guard's head wagged in his helmet.
"Y'gotta have authorization for a distant destination, buddy. That's orders. Otherwise, take a taxi."
"Orders, hell," Zolan growled. "I can't get where I have to go using a taxi. I can't do my work with you security types puttin' the chocks to me for 'orders' each time I need to check a work site." His tone became scathing. "Get your superior on-line and tell him my name and what I want. If he has any questions, tell him to check with Brad Curtin on President Narval's staff. C'mon now. Move, man, move."
The guard's manner changed with the name-dropping.