“And that ain’t all,” said Moe, warming to the subject. “Those crates you guys got wouldn’t last out the first chukker. Most of them would just naturally fall apart the first sharp turn they made. You can’t play polo in ships tied up with haywire. Those broomsticks you ring-rats ride around on are so used to second rate fuel they’d split wide open first squirt of high test stuff you gave them.”
The inner locks grated open and a man stepped through into the room.
“You’re prejudiced,” Gus told Moe. “You just don’t like space polo, that is all. You ain’t got no blueblood in you. We’ll leave it up to this man here. We’ll ask his opinion of it.”
The man flipped back his helmet, revealing a head thatched by white hair and dominated by a pair of outsize spectables.
“My opinion, sir,” said Oliver Meek, “seldom amounts to much.”
“All we want to know,” Gus told him, “is what you think of space polo.”
“Space polo,” declared Meek, “is a noble game. It requires expert piloting, a fine sense of timing and…”
“There, you see!” whooped Gus, triumphantly.
“I saw a game once,” Meek volunteered.
“Swell,” bellowed Gus. “We’ll have you coach our team.”