Falu Bedara was a small man with thick artificial implants in his eyes that made him look more than a little like a Deyzara himself. His arms moved continually, as if he were conducting unseen music, when in reality he was only accompanying his own agitated oratory. As a result, his rain cape was constantly hurling repelled water in all directions. Matthias tried to keep as far from those flailing limbs as courtesy allowed. One thing she didn’t need, one thing no human on Fluva needed, was more water to be thrown in her face.
Bedara was one of those people who lived inside proscribed procedures. At this he was expert, and without his hard work administering such procedures she knew that the bedlam at the port would have been ten times worse than it was. Consequently, she respected his efforts without feeling any particular fondness for their supervisor.
“. . . another thousand bubbles by the end of the week, at least,” he finished, referring to the lightweight and simple-to-erect aerogel shelters that had been pressed into service on behalf of the refugees. She had not paid much attention to his long recitation of needs. The refugee effort was short of everything, and there was no overflowing government warehouse ensconced on any of this system’s empty worlds or dead moons capable of providing the desperately needed supplies.
“I’ll authorize whatever you deem necessary for the short term,” she replied absently.
“That’s all very well and good, Administrator Matthias,” Bedara huffed, “but given the predicted shortfall between what we have been able to scrounge already and what is likely to remain in the—”