“Dreadfully sorry!” the woman shouts over her shoulder as she leaps over the tables after someone, in a British accent that makes Angie sit up and take notice. You don’t hear a lot of that on this space station, and she thought she knew most of the fatheads in Security already; she wonders where this dame flew in from and if she’s likely to stay.

That wouldn’t be entirely a benefit, if this is the stranger’s normal behaviour, she admits to herself, as the disgruntled customers start to call her over to complain about their knocked-over drinks and stepped-in breakfasts, but really this place could use some shaking up.