“Bart?” She looked puzzled. “He said his name was Henry.”
Mike grinned. “He always signs his name: Captain Sir Henry Quill, Bart.. And since he’s the toughest old martinet this side of the Pleiades, the ‘Black’ part just comes naturally. I served under him seven years ago. Put him on.”
In half a second the grim face of Captain Quill was on the screen.
He was as bald as an egg. What little hair he did have left was meticulously shaved off every morning. He more than made up for his lack of cranial growth, however, by his great, shaggy, bristly brows, black as jet and firmly anchored to jutting supraorbital ridges. Any other man would have been proud to wear them as mustaches.
“What can I do for you, Captain?” Mike asked, using the proper tone of voice prescribed for the genial businessman.
“You can go out and buy yourself a new uniform,” Quill growled. “Your old one isn’t regulation any more.”
Well, not exactly growled. If he’d had the voice for it, it would have been a growl, but the closest he could come to a growl was an Irish tenor rumble with undertones of gravel. He stood five-eight, and his red and gold Space Service uniform gleamed with spit-and-polish luster. With his cap off, his bald head looked as though it, too, had been polished.
Mike looked at him thoughtfully. “I see. So you’re commanding the mystery tub, eh?” he said at last.
“That’s right,” said the captain. “And don’t go asking me a bunch of blasted questions. I’ve got no more idea of what the bloody thing’s about than you—maybe not as much. I understand you designed her power plant...?”
He let it hang. If not exactly a leading question, it was certainly a hinting statement.