“We fly by feel, me bye,” O’Malley answered cheerfully as he barged in to the desk and grabbed a report blank.
“I’m putting in for a transfer,” the pilot said with disgust. “This outfit stinks.”
Stan grinned at the angry young man. The flier was four inches taller than Stan and he had a bushy mop of black hair. His cheeks were soft and pink. His black eyes blazed.
“You’re from Texas?” Stan asked.
“I’m from Texas and we don’t take anything from anyone in my country,” the youth answered.
Nick Munson scowled but said nothing.
“I’m from Waco, Texas, myself,” Stan said to the pilot. “But I migrated to Colorado and flew up there.”
The youngster stepped close to Stan. “I’m with you,” his voice had dropped below the murmur of the other men, “when Munson opens up on you like he will.”
“Thanks,” Stan said gratefully.
Nick Munson shoved over his report and his voice cracked out, brittle and hard.