"Confirmed" Yes, yes, it's confirmed."

The phone smacked against its receiver as it was hung up, the enthusiasm behind the action skidding it across a cluttered desk piled high with sealed files, stamped envelopes, and bobble heads in various states of packaging. With care, the glossy walnut and brass nameplate positioned painstakingly betwixt a bobbling calico and corgi was lifted and lovingly bubble-wrapped. Sausage-shaped fingers traced the name there confidently. That name meant something once. Now it would again.

An intercom installed in the desk suddenly blared static. "Mr. Twert, Galactic Airlines is on line one. They want to know how many reservations you are wanting to schedule."

The nameplate positioned gently within, Michael M. Twert sealed up the last shipping box and addressed it.

"All of them. The entire Post staff."

There was a cackle of static. "Round-trip?"

"One way," he corrected. "We're headed back to RhyDin.?