"I suppose regulations call for it," said Halligan cheerfully. "But Cap'n Charlemagne knows the score, and the commish has heard it from him. Both of them know I'm in safely; also, they'll both feel that an hour of relaxation will do both me and the service more good than an hour of recounting the same tale. I'll go in later."
The crowd began to disperse, and Steve followed Halligan towards the messhall. "You can stand some practise," mentioned Joe. "And you'll get it. But I'll take you on for a round or two if you like."
"I'd like," nodded Steve. "And thanks."
"No thanks necessary," said Halligan. "Just repayment; that was a fast job of wiping out that streamer that caught me."
"I didn't think—"
Halligan laughed. "Of course," he said cheerfully, "what I'm really after is for you to get experience enough to prevent it. Now, you see, after a year or so of vortex-fighting, you'll develop some sort of second-sight or other, and the next guy that runs in the way of a streamer, you'll know what to do about it before the poor bird gets clipped. And if not, you'll not wait until the guy gets out of the way before you squelch it; your aim will be good enough to shave the paint off the hull before the vortex streamer gets it."
"I was afraid to cut too close."
"We'll practise with light beams until you can write your name in three types of script," predicted Halligan. "Then—hello, Edwards. Joining us for coffee?"
Roy Edwards looked unhappy as he stopped before them. "Later maybe," he said. "We've got to attend the inevitable."
"Oh nuts. On an empty meat locker?"