(A) - Perseus
How much?!
The chief dock-jock scratched his chin, then his forehead before sliding his hand over his bald crown and rapidly rubbed the back of his neck. His mouth was fixed in a flat grin that could have been either pain or mirth. It was a time honoured posture of exploitation dating back to the first wheeled wagons. He sucked air through clenched teeth and squinted.
“8,000 credits, all in. These Couriers, nice lookin ships but the drives’ more arty-farty than a Uranian pillow-pounder. Needs servicing more often too.”
“And the warranty?" I sighed
The techy shrugged, smiling sincerely “Useless here, skipper.”
(A)