NationStates Jolt Archive

Arkadi reclined in midair in neutral position, flipping through personnel reports. "Jokta!"
A head poked through one of the portals into the grey box of a room.
"Aye, sir?"
"It says here this guy is a Phoenician."
"Aye, sir."
"You got us a Phoenician?"
"Aye, sir."
"Two Phoenicians, even! Why? What, Jokta, would ever posess you to hire a Phoenician for the project, especially when Akkadia has to pay for transport? Why would you ever get one of those annoying pretentious gits to come here?"
"Um, because between the two of them they've got doctorates in veterinary medicine, animal psychology with an emphasis on cephalopods and two decades of experience in Pavlovian conditioning, and genetic engineering."
"Jokat, why didn't you get more than two Phoenicians?"
"What? But, sir-"
"I expect quality! Only the best! Akkadians are fine, sure, but I want to bring in the best minds available! Dismissed."
"Ah... whatever you say, sir. Um... dobri dyen, then."
Jokta's head exited, and Arkadi went back to flipping through the stack of papers. "Hm... 2 Phoenicians, 3 Mycenaeans, a Knossosi, 5 Akkadians...."
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Jokta floated down the corridors of the Akkadian city ship, ocasionally glancing at the fish-eye lenses located every few meters. Passing one particular circular portal, he looked at the fish-eye lense and said "Jokta, blue canary." At the sound of the password, C.O.R.A. slid open the door.
Welcome, Doctor Jokta. Entry time 14 hours, 13 minutes.
Jokta pushed off the opposite wall and floated through the doorway, into a glass tunnel surrounded by floating globs of green folliage, and the occasional amorphous shape of an aerial octopus.

Arnie Nador is a Human, and feels horribly out of place in the city ship. This was his job though, and he did it. He was a safety review officer, and virtually all decisions had to be run by him if they were to be implemented. Unfortunately, he is also a grade-A ass who never misses an opportunity to let the people around him know just how unhappy he is. Worst of all, no one seems to be able to do anything about it. With almost full security clearance and a chip on his shoulder the size of the ship he works on, he is feared and hated across the city. Brushing his blonde hair out of his eyes, he stands up from his desk and goes to his mail box. He is of average build and stature, but his face always carries an expression of annoyance. Opening the first letter and finding only a razor blade, he tosses it into the trash with a sigh. That's the third one this week.
Opening the second one, he finds a vague description of a project being done by one Arkadi and sighs. Putting on the light-blue baseball cap that matches the rest of his ugly work uniform, he stalks out of the office and towards his rendezvous with his next unlucky victim.

OCC: Is this a private RP? If not, how could I join?

(OOC: Go here (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=3249783#3249783))

Tagged for my future post...

OCC: Is this a private RP? If not, how could I join?Semi. See above link.

Just introducing more characters & places for people to jump in right now...

OOC:
C.B. Sippar to Minos Transport Nikon, you are cleared for docking at airlock V1, over.
Copy, Sippar, now making final approach. Nikonout.
Sargon to Sippar, Docks S2-S4 ready to receieve shuttles.
Sippar to Sargon, shuttles en-route. ETA 120 seconds.
Sippar to Akkad, Docks P1 through P3 free to accept shuttles....

Shuttles flitted silently between the various ships of the Akkadian fleet, coordinated partially by the human operators and partially by the tireless C.O.R.A. computers. From the depths of interplanetary space, a single Minos-class transport approached the Civillian Barge Sippar, carrying Phoenicians from a far off colony.

Dave floated through the zero grav chamber with his hat pulled low, looking around nervously. His eyes were blood shot, and twitchy. As he slid through the air, he noticed someone approaching, and he nodded. As he walked by, obviously wearing gravity boots of some sort, Dave spoke quickly and quietly.

"Hey man, want some drugs?"

Arnie stares incredulously at the obviously drugged-up man before him. "You're damn right I do. Hand them over."

Dave opens his coat revealing a near gold mine of every form of injestable nastyness ever. From Marijuan to ex, coke to diet pills, he had it all. "Whada ya want man. And the name's Dave...Dave Chapelle."

[OOC: Taggishness, I suppose.]

OOC: Touche.

IC: Arnie sighs. "Okay Dave." He expertly whips the coat off Chapelle and produces a scrap of paper. "This is a ticket for illegal posession of narcotics. I'm not even going to look at what all you've got in here." He continues on down the hall and through a side door, gone as quickly as he appeared, taking the coat with him.

OOC: "I'm Rick James, bitch."

And with that, Dave rips up the ticket, and grumbles away. "I need to find more weed."

After throwing the jacket into a nearby trash compactor, Arnie proceeds to locate Jokta. After a rather frustrating search, he finally comes upon him in one of the labs. Walking noisily toward him, Arnie gives his usual cheerful greeting. "Thanks for not telling we where you were in your letter. I love an adventure. Now, what exactly is it you're trying to do here? You were wonderfully unhelpful in your written description."

Jokta gave no sign of acknowledging Arnie's presence directly, instead glancing at the nearest fish-eye lense.
"Cora, explain entry of Comrade Nador in context of instruction to limit access to a restriction list."
Safety and Maintenenace personnel to be denied clearance by Governor's mandate only.
"Meh. I suppose I'll have to talk to him then."
Jokta placed one hand on the glass wall through which he had been observing a couple of octopodes happily openinga jar of synthetic clam bits and slowly rotated around to face Arnie. A sharp tap on the wall propelled him in Arnie's direction, stopping with noses inches apart and large dark eyes wide open, and Jokta upside down- or Arnie upside down, from Jokta's perspective.
"At the moment, I'm trying to teach a new octopus how to open pickel jars. They're quite good at learning by observation, you know."

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Nikon silently nudged against the hull of Sippar, nitinol actuators gently clamping the airlock doors together. On one side, one of the Phoenicians was spinning a bolt-wheel so as to be able to open the door. On the other, a blue-clad customs officer floated in the Pier.

In a few minutes, the heavy doors swung open, and the first Phoenician came through into the Akkadian ship. "Greetings, Comrade. Artemisios Aniketos, captain of the Nikon. We hail from Tyre."

Arnie sighs. I hate my life. "Is that all?"

Out of hyperspace comes a pair of LRRSF ships, a staple science/trading team. An Olof Palme class explorer frigate, painted purple with white stripes, and a Robert Plant class science cruiser, painted in the drab grey-blue of LRRSF combat ships, emerge near the Spacing Guild ships.

"Attention, Spacing Guild vessels. This is the LRRSV Kenny Gradney and LRRSV Sam Claibourne[/b]. We come with new charts of the outer regions of the Milky Way for your navigational archives, as well as information on several archaeological sites which may interest you. Requesting docking permission, over."

Aboard the [i]Gradney, Hammond Durmont gathers up the glossy star charts from the navigation table on the frigate. The Olof Palme was big for a frigate, closer to a destroyer than to the small escort ships called frigates in the LRRSF. It was only 40 meters shy on the beam of the Claibourne, in fact. But that's all beside the point.

Durmont rolls up the charts, with several areas marked with flourescent green marker, and ties them each with a rubber band. Being the senior ship astronomer, he was responsible for this kind of thing. While on the Palme class frigates, specialization was usually required, he was closer to the generalists embarked on the other LRRSF ships than would be suggested by his title of senior astronomer.

"Hammond!"
"I'm coming! I'll be there in a minute!"

He stuffs the charts into a long, thin tube made to carry that kind of thing, and runs off down the hallway. He was dressed in standard LRRSF garb, consisting of a loose, white shirt and greenish-black pants, ending just below the knee, with the remaining space covered by a long sock. The robots wore similar clothes, but instead of airtight EVA suits, they only had to wear heater suits. Like all other human LRRSF sailors, he looks like he came right off the H.M.S. Surprise.

Durmond grabs his colorful, embroidered coat off a chair and heads towards the airlock.

"At the moment, yes. If you want a full project schedule, I suggest you ask Arkadi. Heck, you might even be able to weasel it out of C.O.R.A. if you try enough passwords."
With a series of brachial gyrations, Jokta spun himself about, making a nice curve over Arnie's head as his toes reached for holds on the northern wall. Finding them, Jokta curled up, extended his hands along the wall, and began crawling back over to the window to watch his pets.
"TTFN, ta ta for now."

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Aboard the Foundry Sargon
"Ye holy crap, massive radar contacts 7 kliks off Aft North Port."
The current bridge officer drifted over to have a look.
"Sure it's not a shadow?"
"That big? That's one heckuva fault, if it is one. C.O.R.A., give us a visual, 300 declination, 30 ascension."
External cameras swiveled to match the new contacts, and quickly peiced together a mosaic to display on the bridge consoles.
"Holy Kronos Father of Zeus, where in Hades did that monstrosity come from? Purple and white? Please tell me I'm trippin', 'cause no zane person would use that kind of color scheme."
"Sir, this is definitely real, and I'd be more concerned about who and or what it is and how it sneaked past radar and visual contact."
"Right. FleetSec, hit klaxons."
Incoming Audio Message.
The two officers glanced at each other, then back at the screen.
"Play."
"Attention, Spacing Guild vessels. This is the LRRSV Kenny Gradney and LRRSV Sam Claibourne. We come with new charts of the outer regions of the Milky Way for your navigational archives, as well as information on several archaeological sites which may interest you. Requesting docking permission, over."
"Ehm...."
"Why did this have to happen here? Nothing ever happens here. This is the sort of thing that is supposed to happen at Tyre, or Tiryns, or Knossos for gosh sakes, not some backwater Akkadian fleet."
"Reply?"
"Yeah, yeah. C.O.R.A., record. Euthymius Keriklates, Acting Bridge Officer of the Akkadian Foundry Sargon. What airlock coupling mechanism do you use? Send."
"Airlock coupling mechanism?"
"Well, if they want to dock, we'd better make sure that their doors are compatible."

Arnie snorts. "Great. By the way, that plant over there isn't supported properly. It's a safety violation. I'll see to it that you're properly ticketed." He stalks out of the room and back to his office.

"Courier Asimov here, requesting docking permission."
"Confirmed, Asimov. Stand by."
"Stand by, roger."

Santar McClennon switched the microphone off and relaxed into his battered G-harness with a sigh. Now to wait. I hope the old fool hasn't gotten caught.

He glanced idly through the cockpit canopy, watching the city ship spin gently against the starry expanse. He noted absent-mindedly that he was drifting, and tapped the RCS controls gently. Have to get that autopilot fixed... manuals are clumsy.

*****************************************************

Santar jolted out of a fitful doze as the comm system crackled into life.
"Asimov, you have permission to dock at lock V16."

Santar toggled his microphone switch and responded blearily.
"Roger, permission to dock, lock V16." Finally. I can get some rest. Then I can find that old fool and see about the cargo. Santar tapped his controls.

The ancient Windmill-class courier drifted towards the city ship on small RCS thrusters. The main drive, making up, as most couriers' engines did, almost a quarter of the ship's mass, remained silent.

This particular class of courier got its name from the four rectangular hyperspace cutter arrays that jutted out into space from its cylindrical hull. Later models lacked the arrays; they made exceptionally good targets.

The name Asimov had once been emblazoned proudly on the flat nose, just below the cockpit window. Neglect and micrometeorites have taken their toll, however, and the paint was pitted and worn.

"We can adapt with your nitinol locks. We use a universal coupling mechanism, over."

The Gradney prepares to dock with the station. Meanwhile, the Claibourne loiters around. Full of ore, it could probably offload if there was a mining station around.

"Sargon, this is the Gradney. Our freighter is carrying a full load of ore that we would like to offload at the nearest processing station or foundry. Could you possibly direct it there, over?"

"Improperly secured plant. Hah, what's he think'll happen? Break off and clog an air vent? Glupuy sapienetz...." Jokta pushed off the wall and glided to a far portal leading into a glass tunnel through the zoological habitat.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Sargon, this is the Gradney. Our freighter is carrying a full load of ore that we would like to offload at the nearest processing station or foundry. Could you possibly direct it there, over?"
"Officer Keriklates speaking, we don't call this a Foundry ship for nothing. Your frieghter may proceed to 300 meters off the ventral surface and wait for further instruction. Please keep a minimum distance of 400 meters from all other vessels en route. One more question before I can grant clearance- what is your atmosphere's ambient pressure and gas composition? Standing by, over."
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"Asimov, you have permission to dock at lock V16."[ooc: N16 don't exist. :wink:]
"Now on final approach to Ventral pier... 15 meters and closing... Please correct 2 degree second starboard spin... Craft on target. Contact in three, two one," bump "contact. Locking clamps, and that's a wrap. Welcome to Sippar, docking control over and out."
Behind the airlock doors, a bluesuited customs officer floated in the cylindrical corridor of the pier.

[OOC: Fixed.]

Santar tapped a series of commands over his panel, starting the computer's postflight sequence. He unbuckled his harness with a series of quick, efficient movements and kicked off towards the airlock.

Santar paused inside the airlock to collect some equipment. A belt with pocket computer, commlink, and multitool went around the waist of his battered grey suit. A strange device consisting of two metal tubes, one inside the other, went under his arm.

Santar tapped the lock controls. He pushed off gently from his foothold, drifting from the Asimov into the city ship.

Pausing to close and seal the airlock, Santar drifted along the corridor to meet the customs officer.

"Like the earth's atmosphere, Officer Keriklates. 78 nitrogen, 21 oxygen, trace gasses. About .88 atmospheres, over."


The Clayton proceeds to the coordinates supplied by Officer Keriklates and waits for instructions.

"Like the earth's atmosphere, Officer Keriklates. 78 nitrogen, 21 oxygen, trace gasses. About .88 atmospheres, over.""Alrighty, then. Permission granted for linkup on starboard pier. Be advised, you'll require a one hour decompression period before we can allow you into Sargon's atmosphere. 60% oxygen, 40% nitrogen, .6 bars pressure, 35% humidity. Transferring to docking control now."
"Sargon docking control speaking, current bearing 300 mark 30. Proceed along vector 60 mark 340, break on mark...."

The Clayton proceeds to the coordinates supplied by Officer Keriklates and waits for instructions.
"Sargon calling Freighter, please detail unloading procedures, e.g. manual transport through airlock, modular canister drop, pickup from exposed bay, etc. CARMs are standing by for cargo transfer."
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"Greetings, welcome to Sippar. Just a few questions, and barring complications you'll be free to roam the city." The customs officer sucked the tip of his pencil, tapped it pencil against a clear plastic clipboard with a pile of stiff papers stuck to it, and looked back at Santar.
"Right then. Legal name and age? And, ah, what might that be?" The officer waved his pencil at the metal tubes.

Over on the other pier, another officer was processing the Phoenicians. "Ages? Alright. And, are you bringing anything aboard from your ship? Any other crewmembers coming aboard? Okay..." the officer scribbled a bit of his clipboard. "Alright. That's all, you're free to go. Enjoy your stay in Akkadia." Artemisios and his companions crawled along the corridor to the end of the pier, and into the streets of the city.

[FYI, the airlock letters are D(orsal), S(tarboard), V(entral), and P(ort).]
The Foundry Sargon:
http://timesurfer.linuxcowboy.net/foundry.gif

Santar nodded. "Santar McLennon. Age twenty-seven." He held up the two nested tubes. "This is a broomstick."

Santar gave the outer tube a deft twist. A pair of padded handholds folded out of the top, and a similar pair of footholds emerged from the bottom of the outer tube. "Useful device. Whenever I'm in micrograv, I take it along."

Santar placed the rubber tip of the broomstick's inner tube against the wall. He shoved.

The inner tube of the broomstick retracted into the outer tube, than rebounded, sending Santar flying across the corridor. He spun and caught himself against the other wall with the broomstick, braking to a stop. "Simple enough. Takes practice, but it's a great way to get around."

"Roger that, Sargon. Agknowledging docking control instructions."

The Gradney begins the docking manouvers, its high manouverability an asset in this case. On LRR vessels and installations, manouvers were usually somewhat simpler. Robots and AIs can do things faster than humans, and they are mostly employed in ship control duties.

The helmsman gracefully guides the ship through the docking manouvers, his high-speed computer brain taking in the information displayed by the many sensors feeds and displays. The sensors operators monitor the ship's surroundings, and make sure that the Gradney does not come in contact with any dangerous phenomenon. The ship's light armor would not help greatly in the event of a pirate attack.

Inside, Durmond, along with several other ship's scientists and the captain, wait in the small room before the airlock.

Meanwhile, the Clayton manouvers towards the cargo exchange.

"We use modular canisters to transport ore. They are stored in bays on both sides of the ship. We will start unloading as soon as you are ready."

"Heh. Never seen one of those used inside before." The officer scribbled down name, age, and date of arrival.
"Well, that'll be all, then, you can be on your way. Dobri dyen."
The officer grabbed hold of a ladder rung on the north surface of the corridor and pulled, launching himself backwards towards a flashing green light near the next airlock, a few decameters away.

In the opposite direction, the corridor extended for approximately 70 meters before terminating in a three-way juncture- one corridor going east to the other pier, and the other going south into the body of the ship, with a handy internal transport car alcove not very far along it.
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"...mark. Vector ninety mark nil, amplitude ten newton tonnes. Gradney on target. Contact in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, contact. Locking clamps, and that's a wrap. Docking control out."
The external doors opened automatically, pressurized to match the Gradney's atmosphere. The internal airlock doors, however, remained securely locked.

"We use modular canisters to transport ore. They are stored in bays on both sides of the ship. We will start unloading as soon as you are ready.""Understood. CARMs on standby. Ready on your mark."
From the Foundry's gaping ventral cylinder launched 6 grey bricks with hydrogen and xenon-spitting engines stuck on the back, which steadily drifted towards the Clayton.

Santar nodded. He shoved the broomstick against a rung and shot off down the corridor towards the juncture, where he rebounded off the wall and flew down the southern corridor.

With taps of the broomstick tip against the corridor surface, he dodged past another suprised-looking customs officer and continued inwards.

"...mark. Vector ninety mark nil, amplitude ten newton tonnes. Gradney on target. Contact in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, contact. Locking clamps, and that's a wrap. Docking control out."
The external doors opened automatically, pressurized to match the Gradney's atmosphere. The internal airlock doors, however, remained securely locked.

"We use modular canisters to transport ore. They are stored in bays on both sides of the ship. We will start unloading as soon as you are ready.""Understood. CARMs on standby. Ready on your mark."
From the Foundry's gaping ventral cylinder launched 6 grey bricks with hydrogen and xenon-spitting engines stuck on the back, which steadily drifted towards the Clayton.

The small delegation to be sent aboard from the Gradney listen to the airlock as it closes around their ship's. They wait for the door to open, and listen to the hissing of gasses as the door pressurizes. They were not used to this kind of careful procedure. In LRR ships, it had been "as long as its in the green its ok," but on these Guild ships, things were not taken so lightly, apparently.

Meanwhile, the Clayton unloads the fifty-odd large ore cannisters contained inside itself, all filled to the brim.

"We are ready for transfer. The canisters are lined 25-each out from the front of the ship. You can probably tow them if need be."

(OOC: Khrrk- any particular destination in mind, or can I put him anywhere?)

Inside the airlock, Gradney's air was slowly sucked out while near-pure oxygen was pumped in, slowly and steadily lowering the pressure and raising the oxygen percentage. A slightly crackly intercomm voice intoned "Welcome to Sargon. Over the next hour, we'll be adjusting the atmosphere at the maximum rate that will allow your bodies to adapt to the lower pressure. In the meantime, not many people have heard dulcimer and balalaika played at the same time...." The twangs of a hammered dulcimer started over the intercomm playing "Mary Malone". A minute or so later, a siberian balalaika joined in for a series of duets.
Finally, the hissing of air ended as the turbopumps switched off, and the inner airlock door unlocked. Beyond it was a short tan-colored hallway. At the end, an intersection led to a long hallway curving off to Fore, and an internal transport car to Aft. A gracile Spacer in blue denim pants and a blue t-shirt emblazoned with the Dodecahedral logo on the breast pocket floated at the intersection.
"Zdravstvuyte, I'm Euriclides Aniktetos. I'll be your guide for the time being." The Spacer extended his right leg to shake hands.
When one has four prehensile appendages, one should use all of them.

Outside, the CARMs split into two groups of three, and each headed for a different canister. Carefully butting up against the ends on xenon, they switched over to high-thrust hydrogen burning and began pushing them into the mouth of the Foundry.

[OOC: He's trying to find lodgings. Keep that in mind, and you can plop him down anywhere.]

Arnie, after a good long sulk in his office, departs once again to find some more people to harass.

(Right-o.)
Inside the transport car, C.O.R.A. examined the new arrival through fisheye lenses. He did not appear to match any of the regular residents of the ship.
Greetings, traveller. I am the Sippar CORA Unit. Where would you like to go?
"Ah, where can I get a place to stay?"
Permanent residence or overnight accomodation?
"Overnight will do for the moment."
Visitor Quarters. En route. Mind the gravity.
A green arrow lit up on the back wall pointing towards one end of the car. As it began to move, the small amount of apparent gravity pulled Santar in that direction. After about a few seconds, the arrow reversed direction and the car came to a stop. The doors opened into a square corridor.
Have a nice day.
To the right was an opening into a large plaza. At the end straight ahead, a grey suited spacer floated behind a desk.
"Aha! Good day, sir. Will you be wanting a room?"
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Meanwhile, on Sargon....
Dave's roommate pushed open the hatch to their small apartment and swam inside. The lights were dim, and dirty clothes and towels littered the air.
"Yo, dude, anybody home? We got maintenance detail in 30 min!"

The LRR crewmen, more accustomed to growling bases and smashing guitars, feel somewhat uncomfortable in the presence of folk music played on non-electrical instruments. If it had been an LRR ship, delegations would be greeted with a little Van Halen or Talking Heads as performed by crewmembers.

When the airlock door opens, the LRR delegation files in, led by Captain Jorge St. Ives, and Durmond, who carries the large tube of charts.

Not about to be knocked off-balance by the choice of music, Durmond heartily grabs Aniktetos's leg and gives it a good shake.

"Its good to meet you, Mr. Aniktetos. We have come with the newest stellar charts for navigation. Several areas of interest have been highlighted on the maps. We also need to restock on certain provisions, such as recording film," says St. Ives.

"Yes, there are many new discoveries made by LRR explorer ships on these maps," interjects Durmond.

Outside, the Clayton finishes unloading the ore cannisters and closes up its transfer doors.

"That's it, Sargon. Requesting clearance for exiting your traffic control area, over."

Arnie comes upon the boarding LRR delegation and stands back, watching closely for anything he can criticise.

Santar nodded, slightly distracted by the desk. What use is a desk in free-fall?
"Erm, yes."

Santar nodded, slightly distracted by the desk. What use is a desk in free-fall?
"Erm, yes.""Ah, very good. We're a bit more crowded than usual right now, what with all the new people Doctor Arkadi has been bringing in, but we do have several vacancies left. Nothing luxurious, of course, but I think you'll find it satisfactory. Would you happen to be visiting for Doctor Arkadi as well?"

When the airlock door opens, the LRR delegation files in, led by Captain Jorge St. Ives, and Durmond, who carries the large tube of charts.

Not about to be knocked off-balance by the choice of music, Durmond heartily grabs Aniktetos's leg and gives it a good shake.

"Its good to meet you, Mr. Aniktetos. We have come with the newest stellar charts for navigation. Several areas of interest have been highlighted on the maps. We also need to restock on certain provisions, such as recording film," says St. Ives.

"Yes, there are many new discoveries made by LRR explorer ships on these maps," interjects Durmond."Well, I wouldn't know much about that. Astronomers might be pretty interested in that stuff. I'll just take you on up to Admin, and we'll see what we can work out, kay?"Arnie comes upon the boarding LRR delegation and stands back, watching closely for anything he can criticise.Aniktetos looked to the side and did a mild double-take. "Hey! Arnold. Watcha doin' 'round these parts? I was just going to take these fine gentlemen up to Admin, if you, ah, feel like tagging along."
Outside, the Clayton finishes unloading the ore cannisters and closes up its transfer doors.

"That's it, Sargon. Requesting clearance for exiting your traffic control area, over."The fleet of CARMs returned to their docks on the Foundry, and machinery within the ventral cylinder continued with sorting and emptying the cargo canisters.
"Copy Clayton, you are cleared for departure. Please proceed 500 meters at zero mark two-seven-zero. Sargon out."

Aniktetos looked to the side and did a mild double-take. "Hey! Arnold. Watcha doin' 'round these parts? I was just going to take these fine gentlemen up to Admin, if you, ah, feel like tagging along."
Arnie glares at him. "My name isn't Arnold. And I have no interest in being around you any more than necessary." He turns and stalks off.

OOC: I'm going on an eight-day trip starting tomorrow, so I'll be on the sidelines until then.

"Suit yourself." Aniktetos turned back to Ives and Durmond. "Eh, don't mind Arnie. He takes his job a bit too seriously, sometimes."