“Well, well, well, Mister Gabriel,” said Black Bart. The voice was oily, but the oil was oil of vitriol. “You not only come late, but you come incognito. Where is your uniform?”
There was a muffled snicker from one of the junior officers, but it wasn’t muffled enough. Before Mike the Angel could answer, Captain Quill’s head jerked around.
“That will do, Mister Vaneski!” he barked. “Boot ensigns don’t snicker when their superiors—and their betters—are being reprimanded! I only use sarcasm on officers I respect. Until an officer earns my sarcasm, he gets nothing but blasting when he goofs off. Understand?”
The last word was addressed to the whole group.
Ensign Vaneski colored, and his youthful face became masklike. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Quill didn’t even bother to answer; he looked back at Mike the Angel, who was still standing at attention. Quill’s voice resumed its caustic saccharinity. “But don’t let that go to your head, Mister Gabriel. I repeat: Where is your pretty red spaceman’s suit?”
“If the Captain will recall,” said Mike, “I had only twenty-four hours’ notice. I couldn’t get a new wardrobe in that time. It’ll be in on the next rocket.”
Captain Quill was silent for a moment, then he simply said, “Very well,” thus dismissing the whole subject. He waved Mike the Angel to a seat. Mike sat.
“We’ll dispense with the formal introductions,” said Quill. “Commander Gabriel is our Engineering Officer. The rest of these boys all know each other, Commander; you and I are the only ones who don’t come from Chilblains Base. You know Commander Jeffers, of course.”
Mike nodded and grinned at Peter Jeffers, a lean, bony character who had a tendency to collapse into chairs as though he had come unhinged. Jeffers grinned and winked back.