"Yup," said Brophy agreeably. "We know. But your space record is enviable. You have served the Corporation faithfully and well—"
What he meant was, we could be spared. Johnny Larkin said wryly, "I should think those would be arguments for not sending the Pegasus."
Brophy glowered at him from behind glinting pince-nez. "And who might this be?"
The skipper said nervously, "Lt. Larkin, sir. My First Mate." He added proudly, "Him an' my daughter had a military weddin' last night."
"That's too bad, Captain," harumphed Brophy. "But to return to the subject—"
"Military!" bellowed the skipper. "Not 'shotgun!'" Then a sudden idea struck him; he adopted a wheedling tone. "Look Colonel—if we gotta go, we gotta go. But I c'n excuse Lt. Larkin from duty, can't I? After all, he's on his furlough. This is his honeymoon—"
Brophy shook his head decisively.
"I'm sorry, Captain. All furloughs are cancelled. All men must report for duty on this special assignment. I might add, though, that if your venture is successful, the Corporation will fittingly reward all participants—"
"An' if it ain't?" asked the Old Man.
"They'll bury us," I piped up, "by remote control. With honors. See you later, boys. I've got to see a carpenter about a coffin." And I left.