"Five years on and off."
"You have a license?"
"There are no licenses on Ophiuchus IX," Pandit pointed out.
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Habit. You people don't lie."
"We try not to."
"Your name?"
Pandit told him. The Denebian wrote it down on a form and said: "You'll do. Pay is twenty credits a mission." It wasn't much, but it was more than Pandit had expected.
"What do we fly?" he asked. Questions didn't seem welcome, but no harm trying.
The Denebian looked at him and laughed. "You want the job?"