Johnny took his hand off the stud. "Don't holler at me," he told his father severely.
Burt swore under his breath and jammed down on the stud. A red light overhead winked on and off furiously, and he knew that if he had waited another moment they would have plowed into the asteroid like a battering ram into a tub of soft butter.
"Marcia, oh Marcia!" he turned and called over his shoulder to his wife.
She stuck her head in through the galley door. "Dear," she said, "let me make these sandwiches, will you? I don't tell you how to pilot the ship, but I'll never get this lunch all packed unless you let me alone."
Burt scowled. "That's the general idea. I want to be let alone, too. So if you'll just take your darling little son the devil out of here—"
"Why, Burt Rogers! Johnny's only eight, and he's quite harmless. If I had known ten years ago that you didn't like children—"
Burt shook his head. "Joan's fine. Joan is two years younger than Johnny, but she doesn't bother anyone. She just sits in the galley and—"
"Hah!" Marcia snorted. "She sits in the galley and digs her arms into the mayonnaise tub up to the elbows, that's all."
"Well, then they're both brats."
"Burt!"