“No runs, no hits, no errors,” said Mike the Angel.
She grinned back impishly. “I haven’t been up to bat yet, Commander Gabriel.”
“Then I suggest you grab some sort of club to defend yourself, because I’m going to be in there pitching.”
The smile on her face faded, to be replaced by a look that was neither awe nor surprise, but partook of both.
“You really mean that, don’t you?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“I do,” said Mike the Angel.
Commander Peter Jeffers was in the Control Bridge when Mike the Angel stepped in through the door. Jeffers was standing with his back to the door, facing the bank of instruments that gave him a general picture of the condition of the whole ship.
Overhead, the great dome of the ship’s nose allowed the gleaming points of light from the star field ahead to shine down on those beneath through the heavy, transparent shield of the cast transite and the invisible screen of the external field.
Mike walked over and tapped Pete Jeffers on the shoulder.