Free For Honor We Stand by Harvey G. Phillips, H. Paul Honsinger Page B

they reported aboard the Cumberland on 21 January 2315.  The microfreighter’s automated cabin monitoring system recorded many, many hours of deep, vigorous, bulkhead-rattling, manly snoring during the journey.
    So it was that both men were well-rested and relaxed when they jumped into the Rashid system on 19 March and made contact with Rashidian System Traffic Control.  Having completed the standard electronic identification, interrogation, and response process the microfreighter, known only by the prosaic registry number GPGC 72114, had been waiting about five minutes to receive instructions from the traffic controllers.  The doctor was getting impatient.
    “Do you think that something is amiss?  I cannot imagine why anything would take this long.”
    “Relax, Bram.  Traffic controllers are just another species of government bureaucrat.”  He smiled and turned towards his friend.  “You are familiar with the three imperatives of bureaucratic behavior, right?”  The doctor shook his head. 
    “Other than ‘cause as much frustration as possible to Ibrahim Sahin,’ I’m sure I have no idea.”
    “Well, then, it’s a good thing you have me in your life to impart these nuggets of pure, triple-distilled wisdom to you.  I am tasked with the completion of your already considerable education.  Attend closely, my friend.  Here are the Three Rules of Bureaucratic Behavior that Commodore Middleton taught to me years ago.  One:  never, ever hurry.  If you do something fast once, people will expect you to do it that fast every other time.  Two:  never be the first person to do anything.  To err is human, but to err in a way no one has erred before makes people question your judgment.  Three:  there is no mistake that cannot be papered over by enough of the right kind of documentation.  Once the dust settles, it’s not what you do, but what you say about what you did, that matters.”
    The doctor chuckled.  “There is more truth to those statements than I really care to admit.  There is a surprising amount of bureaucracy in a military hospital, you know.  I was truly surprised because I thought that the objective external constraints of the life and death of patients would limit the development of bureaucratic tendencies.  Unfortunately, however . . . .”
    The doctor’s exposition on the subject of medical bureaucracy was interrupted by the three quick beeps of an attention signal from the comm panel indicating that traffic control was about to issue instructions.  Twenty seconds later, the speaker came to life.  “Union Microfreighter Galaxy Papa Galaxy Charlie seven-two-one-one-four this is Rashidian jump point traffic control.  We are prepared to transmit navigational instructions.  Are you ready to copy?  Over.” 
    Max hit the transmit key.  “This is one-one-four, acknowledging.  Ready to copy instructions.  Over.” 
    “One-one-four, you are cleared to enter system immediately.  Safety, cargo inspection, and customs clearance have been waived.  Entry visas are conferred upon both vessel occupants without personal interview.  Standard traffic pattern approach requirement is waived.  You are being given a direct approach to Rashid IV and direct clearance to land on Victor India Papa Pad zero-zero-two at Amman Spaceport.  Set your transponder to squawk Kilo Papa Lima Charlie and that will get you all the way to the surface.  Trajectory being downloaded to your navcomp right now.  Please acknowledge receipt.  Over.”
    Max keyed the navcomp and saw that a nearly straight line trajectory from the ship’s current position to the surface of Rashid IV had been plotted without any of the usual weaving about to avoid other traffic, curving to avoid communications beam corridors, or oblique angles designed to bring the ship through traffic control points.  Usually, the only time a ship got to follow so straight a path was when it was a warship going into combat more interested in