The Luminous Blonde

Some dames are bright. Some brighter. Like the gorgeous wife of the playboy Commish who combined all the stellar attributes necessary to slice in two parts an ultra modern spaceship, and a marriage, with one swoop of a clockhand.
As the frilly-bloused rockette bent over him to unbuckle his safticorsette, newly appointed Commissioner-For-Economics-For-Mars J. Edwin Elbert peeked. But her fingernails tatted so hastily at the buckle that he raised his surprisingly youthful blue eyes to her face. She was blushing there too. A pretty little baby face.
Skillfully he swallowed a rising belch that was a natural consequence of the cessation of gravity upon a paunch overbloated with farewell champagne, Venus-dipped cold crab and too sweet apricot bread.
Director Hugens is to be congratulated upon his choice of rockettes, he rumbled, sneaking his fat, glossily manicured fingers about her wrist. The click of the powder-room door would warn him of his wife's return. Just the other day I was telling him that the new Bolo II should have only the best. I see he has exceeded even my most hopeful expectations.
She giggled nervously.
Tell me my dear, when does the Bolo go into Hugens' celebrated centrigrav? This weightlessness is rather unsettling to one's stomach.
Can I get you a demamine pill, sir?
No, thank you. When does—
Oh! At 1900 hours, she gushed.
The ship splits in half, she added helpfully, and dimpled in that winning way of little girls who will never grow up.
Remarkable. They tell me some sort of cable will tie us together.
Yes sir, when we are far enough out in space so there isn't any air friction, Mr. Webley, the pilot, pulls a little lever and the nose flies off. He'll be all alone out there for forty-two days.