"To hell with uniforms," Garlock broke in. "Why do women have to go off the deep end on clothes?"
"She's right—you're wrong, Clee," James said. "Without a uniform you won't get off the ground, not even with the Society. And you'll be talking to Top Planetary Brass. Also, they're Gunthered plenty—you can feel their Op field clear out here."
"Could be," Garlock conceded. "Okay, you girls dope it out to suit yourselves. But think you can stand it, Belle, to wear more than twelve square inches of clothes?"
"Wait 'til you see it, chum. I've been designing a uniform for myself for positively years."
"I can't wait. And you're a captain, of course."
"Huh? You can't have two cap.... Oh, I see. Primes. I appreciate that, Clee. Thanks."
"Hold on, both of you," James said. "You haven't thought this through far enough. Suppose we meet forces already organized? Better start high than low. You've got to be top admiral, Clee."
"Rocket-oil! Suppose we don't find anything at all?"
"You're right, Jim," Belle said. "Clee, you talk like a man with a paper nose. It's you who's been yowling for two solid years about being ready for anything. We've got to do just that."
"Correction accepted. Brief me."