simon_doctor (
simon_doctor) wrote2010-04-27 10:58 pm
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The commercial flight from Praxed to Osiris takes the better part of two days. Simon's got a berth to himself -- a small one, as these things go, but private.
He spends the first hour or so of the flight going over the next two weeks' schedule: meetings, interviews with potential new employees, a preliminary report on the infancy of the Rural Health Research Initiative. Another half-hour going over his own part of said report one last time. For the rest of the flight there isn't much to do except catch up on sleep, read, write a few textwaves.
(Presenting reports isn't new to him at all; hearing reports is something he's still getting used to, even months into the new job. The report he's looking forward to hearing is the one from Drs. Oberste and Mitel, regarding the current progress of the mobile clinic circuit.)
A few hours before they're scheduled to land, he goes over his part of the report one final last time.
Jordie picks him up at the spaceport, takes him and his luggage in hand, and drives him back to the apartment he remembers of yore.
He's not expecting what he sees when he steps through the front door, suitcases in tow.
He spends the first hour or so of the flight going over the next two weeks' schedule: meetings, interviews with potential new employees, a preliminary report on the infancy of the Rural Health Research Initiative. Another half-hour going over his own part of said report one last time. For the rest of the flight there isn't much to do except catch up on sleep, read, write a few textwaves.
(Presenting reports isn't new to him at all; hearing reports is something he's still getting used to, even months into the new job. The report he's looking forward to hearing is the one from Drs. Oberste and Mitel, regarding the current progress of the mobile clinic circuit.)
A few hours before they're scheduled to land, he goes over his part of the report one final last time.
Jordie picks him up at the spaceport, takes him and his luggage in hand, and drives him back to the apartment he remembers of yore.
He's not expecting what he sees when he steps through the front door, suitcases in tow.
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He likes things neat and tidy, everything in its proper place, and if dust dares accumulate, it's not for long.
There's no dust (should Simon want to take his finger to the doorframes or the fan blades), and the baseboards are scrubbed.
But on every available surface, there are stacks upon stacks of fat books and clipped sheaves of digital paper.
"Sorry about the mess -- " Over his shoulder, as he heads for the guest room. "You remember where stuff is?"
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