Somebody wanted to know what was wrong with the kid's face—Bauer, I think it was, after he came back to the table.
"Compression and decompression," the kid said. "You're all the time climbing into your suit and out of your suit. Inboard air's thin to start with. You get a few redlines—that's these ruptured blood vessels—and you say the hell with the money; all you'll make is just one more trip. But, God, it's a lot of money for anybody my age! You keep saying that until you can't be anything but a spacer. The eyes are hard-radiation scars."
"You like dot all ofer?" asked Oswiak's wife politely.
"All over, ma'am," the kid told her in a miserable voice. "But I'm going to quit before I get a Bowman Head."
"I don't care," said Maggie Rorty. "I think he's cute."
"Compared with—" Paddy began, but I kicked him under the table.
We sang for a while, and then we told gags and recited limericks for a while, and I noticed that the kid and Maggie had wandered into the back room—the one with the latch on the door.
Oswiak's wife asked me, very puzzled: "Doc, w'y dey do dot flyink by planyets?"
"It's the damn govermint," Sam Fireman said.