Hammond ignored the statement because he thought it sounded too much like bluster. "Drake," he said, "the Haywire Queen is about ready to hop for Terra. Do you feel up to running it in?"
"Steve," snapped Sandra Drake, "I'm not going to let any idiot male handle the Haywire Queen, and don't you forget it! After all, I'm the only pilot in the solar system that knows how to run her! I'll personally strangle both you and whomever you think you're going to get for that job, understand?"
Sandra turned and left.
"What in the name of the seven hells has got that dame?" asked McBride.
"There are a lot of ways to kill a cat besides choking it to death with cream," said Hammond thoughtfully, "but the latter way is just as effective and sometimes a lot easier. Our she-barracuda has just hit the one thing that she can't fight."
"Huh?"
"Sure. We gave her credit for doing a good job. Willing, honest credit. No matter how she may profess to despise our opinion, she can't yell 'Liar' at us because that would mean that she thought that the praise meant nothing. She's got to agree with us, or deny that she did anything worthy. And she's been living in a world of her own, trying to prove that she is the stuff. So—get me?"
"Uh-huh, I suppose so. How're you set?"
"Pretty good. We've swiped all of your spare alphatrons and a couple more gravitic generators, and we'll butter the job up a little so that we won't worry about over-loading the alphatrons. That'll take us an hour or so. How're you doing?"
"I dunno. Doc said wait here—and dammit, I'm running out of fingernails, cigarettes, and patience."