Drusilla's gray eyes squinted. She stood with such rigidity that her feet floated clear of the deck. She said, "I informed you I'll accept no substitute for the Wollongong Obstetric Hospital on Earth, and I didn't clean your uniform. That cleanser makes me vomit."
"Sorry, sweetjet," Jak mumbled. He wished he could say something just once without upsetting her. He magnetized his shoes and pulled Drusilla down from the ceiling. "I was thinking of you," he pleaded, "but don't you worry. We'll be on Luna in a bit over four earth-days. From there to—"
Drusilla pulled loose and flitted to Number 3 viewer. "Why couldn't you have a plane like that?" she demanded with a dramatic gesture at the needle shape. "The Box! That's what this wreck looks like, a prehistoric boxcar!"
"But, sweetjet, I've told you. Streamlining is useless except in atmosphere. The Box is the most economical construction for—"
"What's that insignia?" Drusilla interrupted. "Like a skull and two bones. What is it?"
Jak turned the knob to maximum magnification. "Umm. I believe that's an old pictograph for poison. Perhaps they're carrying some poisonous cargo, and—"
"In a yatch?" Drusilla sneered. "Why can't you have a yatch?"
"My salary. I hoped to pick up enough ore in the Rings, this trip, but we had to bring you back, and—"
"You act as if it were my fault!" Drusilla squeaked.
The plates of the Box vibrated slightly as the spacecopter threw out magnetic grapplers and reeled in until the fuselages touched. The airlock of the slender plane opened to release three spacesuited figures. "Men!" Drusilla gasped. Her hands flew in instinctive twitches to red tattooed lips, blue tattooed eyelids, and green dyed hair.