“Who’s there?” he demanded in a neutral voice in case it might be somebody important.
“Flight Officer Ozaki,” said Flight Officer Ozaki.
A thundercloud rolled across the commander’s face. “What do you mean by disturbing me at breakfast?” he demanded.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the pilot, “but my ship’s falling into a red sun.”
“Too bad,” grunted Commander Krogson and turned back to his mush and milk.
“But, sir,” persisted the other, “you’ve got to send somebody to pull me off. My converter’s dead!”
“Why tell me about it?” said Krogson in annoyance. “Call Space Rescue, they’re supposed to handle things like this.”
“Listen, commander,” wailed the pilot, “by the time they’ve assigned me a priority and routed the paper through proper channels, I’ll have gone up in smoke. The last time I got in a jam it took them two weeks to get to me; I’ve only got hours left!”
“Can’t make exceptions,” snapped Krogson testily. “If I let you skip the chain of command, everybody and his brother will think he has a right to.”
“Commander,” howled Ozaki, “we’re frying in here!”