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One thing is certain. When bigger and better shirts are made, the officials of the Corporation which underpays us will stuff 'em. We were squatting in a cradle on Earth, waiting for flight orders, when the control turret door swung open and in marched two owl-eyed zombies dressed in frowns and white mess jackets. One of these looked at us, then at a slip of paper. He said, ""Donovan, Herbert J.?"" ""Present,"" I said, ""but not accountable for. Otherwise known as 'Sparks.' What's the matter, Satyr? Who found out what about me?"" ""Come,"" ordered the stranger curtly, ""with me!"" And he jerked a thumb in the general direction of the doorway. Cap Hanson-he's the skipper of our space-shuttling freighter, the Saturn-bridled like a mick at an Orangeman's Ball. If there's one thing he cannot tolerate, it is hearing anyone else issue orders on his bridge. His brows congealed into fur-line cumulus clouds.

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9781636523002

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