"Want some more?" asked Timmy. He stared down at the hulking pilot, as Thurner rolled over and rubbed his face. "Want another?" Timmy repeated.
The door opened, and the Director of Spaceport Operations stood framed in its classic Callistonian marble columns.
"I want the two of you in my office. Special job for T-Three."
Timmy snapped to attention. T-3 was the one military department which took immediate command of any pilot under any circumstances. Obedience to T-3 was unquestioning and immediate. Even Thurner assumed a semblance of military bearing and shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He fell in beside Timmy and, scowling, followed the Director out. Johnny Damokles watched them, wiping greasy glasses on a greasier apron almost automatically.
The Office of the Director of Operations, shared by the Port Captain, had been designed in 2475 by Anton Sestrovic.
Stars and planets moved silently across the ceiling in an endless procession, while glowing dots, marking the positions of spaceships in transit, crawled in well-defined lanes. Timmy shuffled his feet on the carpet and waited for the Director to seat himself at his plexi-glass desk. Thurner threw himself into a chair.
"Well?" grunted the big pilot, "what's T-Three after now? The feathers from an angel's backside?"
The Director looked at him coldly, "No," he said. "Something a little more dangerous to procure. Information is what they want."
"Why in hell don't they ask the Greek in the bar? He knows everything! Ask his side-kick here."
Timmy flushed and knotted his fist. "You ask me ... later," he grunted.