He said, cautiously, “That so? Never heard of it. What is it?”
Mark said indignantly, “It’s the Mnemonic Service, that’s all. It’s my job to look at anything I want to and to ask anything I want to. And I’ve got the right to do it.”
“Can’t look at the log if I don’t want you to.”
“You’ve got no say in it, you… you noncompos.”
The captain’s coolness evaporated. He threw his cigar down violently and stamped at it, then picked it up and poked it carefully into the ash vent.
“What the Galactic Drift is this?” he demanded. “Who are you, anyway? Security agent? What’s up? Let’s have it straight. Right now.”
“I’ve told you all I have to.”
“Nothing to hide,” said the captain, “but I’ve got rights.”
“Nothing to hide?” squeaked Mark. “Then why is this ship called the Triple G?”
“That’s its name.”