It did look that way.
I looked at Johnny and he looked at me and we started over toward the bush. But the birds, or whatever, flew away quick, the minute we started toward them. They skimmed off low to the ground and were out of sight in a minute.
We started off again, none of us saying anything, and Ellen came up and walked alongside me. We were just far enough ahead to be out of earshot, and she said, “Pop—”
And didn’t go on with it, so I answered, “What, kid?”
“Nothing,” she replied sorrowful-like. “Skip it.”
So of course I knew what she wanted to talk about, but I couldn’t think of anything to say except to cuss out Mars Polytech and that wouldn’t have done any good. Mars Polytech is just too good for its own good and so are its ramrods or graduates. After a dozen years or so outside, though, some of them manage to unbend and limber up.
But Johnny hadn’t been out that long, by ten years or so. The chance to pilot the Chitterling had been a break for him, of course, as his first job. A few years with us and he’d be qualified to skipper something bigger. He’d qualify a lot faster than if he’d had to start in as a minor officer on a bigger ship.
The only trouble was that he was too good-looking, and didn’t know it. He didn’t know anything they hadn’t taught him at Polytech and all they’d taught him was math and astrogation and how to salute, and they hadn’t taught him how not to.
“Ellen,” I started to say, “don’t—”
“Yes, Pop?”