He sucked in the cold night air of summertime Alaska and squared his shoulders.
Two hours later, Preston sat at the controls of a one-man patrol ship just as he had in the old days. Only the control panel was bare where the firing studs for the heavy guns was found in regular patrol ships. And in the cargo hold instead of crates of spare ammo there were three bulging sacks of mail destined for the colony on Ganymede.
Slight difference, Preston thought, as he set up his blasting pattern.
"Okay, Preston," came the voice from the tower. "You've got clearance."
"Cheers," Preston said, and yanked the blast-lever. The ship jolted upward, and for a second he felt a little of the old thrill—until he remembered.
He took the ship out in space, saw the blackness in the viewplate. The radio crackled.
"Come in, Postal Ship. Come in, Postal Ship."
"I'm in. What do you want?"
"We're your convoy," a hard voice said. "Patrol Ship 08756, Lieutenant Mellors, above you. Down at three o'clock, Patrol Ship 10732, Lieutenant Gunderson. We'll take you through the Pirate Belt."