John deliberated in front of the robot for a moment. He'd told it to watch over his luggage while he entered the recruitment office. His cases would have been high quality if they hadn't seen 50 years of use, and each one was monogrammed with his grandfather's initials. From a well-to-do family on Cambridge, John had dealt exclusively with human porters and staff, and was unsure of how tipping worked with robots. Looking at it almost as blankly as it looked back at him, he shrugged and went inside, directing himself to the recruitment office via the many, almost alarmingly frequent, signs.
Catching himself in the mirror outside the door, he fingered the buttons on his blazer one by one while mentally reciting one of the many mantras he'd been raised with. "Sometimes, always, never." He unbuttoned 'sometimes'. After running his fingers pointlessly over his already-impeccable moustache, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose momentarily whilst breathing heavily. He opened his eyes again and felt a little more relaxed, slipping a hand inside his jacket to retrieve a cigarette to complete his composure.
As he stepped in to the office, the man behind the desk regarded him, and his top lip curled almost imperceptibly. John understood.
"You know how it is, I'm sure," he started, as the recruitment officer remained totally still, "second-born sons - it's the armed forces for us whether we like it or not."
The officer gave a tiny nod, not quite sympathetic.
"I know what you're thinking, but I don't like the notion of birthright. I don't want to go through the academy like everyone expects me to, get my comission and start out in a comfy chair on a destroyer. I want to enlist. Lowest rank, lowest pay grade. I want a real experience, and to really earn any promotion I might get."
John had finished the speech he'd worked out in his head hours before, and a long beat passed as both men looked at each other in silence. John felt like he had failed, hadn't said enough or the right things, and was about to launch in to a second exhortation when the recruitment officer finally moved, producing a form from beneath his desk, and placing it on the desk.
"Very well," he finally said, completely flatly. John nodded sincerely and took the vacant chair, filling in the form.
In between endless demands to turn to section 4F if colourblind, or to attach an L96 if he had previously worked for any other national organisation, John found a few boxes to enter salient information.
Name: John Richards
Age: 21
Blood type: O-
Nationality: Bretonian
Place of birth: Heaton Chapel, Planet Cambridge
Education: Morchester public school, King's College Cambridge (first class degree in History)
The recruitment officer took the form as soon as John had finished penning his sixteenth and final signature on the byzantine document. He flicked through it deftly, as he had no doubt done hundreds if not thousands of times before, and his eyes lit up briefly, his first display of emotion during the entire meeting.
"A student of history, I see,"
"Ah, indeed sir!" John replied eagerly, glad he had made some semblance of a good impression. However, the officer made no follow-up comment, and another long, tortuous beat passed in silence between the two men before the officer placed John's form in a large envelope and sealed it, placing it in a canister which was quickly sent down a pneumatic tube.
"How are we to contact you?"
"I'm in room 63 of the Queen Vic." John produced a complimentary card from the hotel out of his pocket with a fluid gesture. The officer made no movement to take it, so John let it fall from his fingers on to the desk.
"You should hear something in 1-5 working days."
John nodded and took his cue, quickly leaving the room and hoping that robot hadn't taken offence at his lack of a gratuity and disposed of his belongings as he headed out of the building.
