With a sigh he eased back lightly on the throttle grip in his left hand. As he felt the weight on his chest recede, the pressure in his G-suit automatically let up. He smiled to think that a less experienced pilot would now be slumped in his seat, head lolling side to side, eyes wide open and blank, his bloodless brain dreaming of a lunar landscape. He knew; he'd been there often enough himself. In the old days.
System monitors commencing full operation.
Good. From here on, the fuel controls would be handled by the in-flight computer, which would routinely monitor thrust and temperature by sampling every two milliseconds, then adjusting. But that was the machine stuff, the child's play. He'd just done what only a man could do.
Power-up complete for inboard and outboard tridents, portside and starboard, Petra reported finally. Hydrogen feed now in auto maintenance mode.
She'd taken full charge. He was out of the loop.
But I just rode this space bird up your ice-cold peredka, silicon lady.
He felt a burst of exhilaration and gave a long, basso whoop. It was a crow of triumph, a challenge to every male ape in the forest. Yuri Andreevich Androv lived for this, and only felt alive when he'd just pushed his body to the limit. He needed it, lusted for it. It was all he'd ever really cared about.
It was, he knew, his primal need to dominate his world. He knew that, but so what? Other men merely dreamed it, played at it—in games, business, even politics. He did it. And he fully intended to go on doing it.
"Roll down her audio, dammit," he yelled into his helmet mike. "She's driving me crazy."
"She's supposed to," a radio voice sounded back in his ear. "Ramenskoye says all test pilots—you included, my friend—pay more attention to a female voice." A laugh. "Come to matya, darling."