"But the ships aren't using the field. What harm are we doing?"
"Orders," he said. There were still a few pilots checking over their ships, making sure everything was in working condition before they were locked up. In a week, all flight personnel would be gone to the settlements, there to await the next round of voyages when Earth came near. They had it soft, while he, the guard, had to stay in cold discomfort.
"We're going to visit a friend of my son," said Amantha. "They were pilots together. Do you object?"
He didn't, but there were some who would. The order made sense with respect to little boys who would otherwise swarm over the field, falling off ships or getting stuck in rocket tubes.
"What have you got?" he asked, eying Amantha's parcel dubiously.
"I baked something." She opened a corner of the package and the smell drifted out. "Made it with Martian fruit. Not much of it around these days."
He sniffed and became hungry. That was queer—he'd eaten before coming on duty.
"Okay," he said. "You can go. Don't get caught or it's my neck." He stood closer to the old man and woman, and the package, too, and pointed out the window. "Act like you're leaving in case anyone's checking up. When you get near the line of ships, duck behind them and walk along until you find the right one. No one will see you except me."
Amantha pinched the package together. "I'd give you some, but I can't cut it before the pilot sees it."
"I guess you can't," said the sentry wistfully. "Maybe he won't eat all of it."