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We were about three hours out of Long Island Spaceport, and I had just finished swapping farewell insults with Joe Marlowe, head bug-pounder at Lunar III, when the door of my radio turret slid open and in slithered-if round things can slither-Cap Hanson, skipper of our gallant space-going scow, the Saturn. The Old Man's eyes were as wide as a lady bowler's beam, and his face, which boasts a pale mauve hue even under normal circumstances, was now a ripe, explosive fuchsia. He jammed a pudgy forefinger against his lips. ""Shh!"" he shhed. He squeezed in and closed the door behind him, shot a nervous glance about the room, then wheezed throatily, ""Is there anybody here, Sparks?""

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9781636523033

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