"That's too bad," a wingsman growled sourly. "We'll wake it up, won't we?"
"Let's not be callous," the other wingsman grunted in sarcasm. "Analyst Meikl has sensitivities."
The analyst stared from one to the other of them in growing consternation, then looked pleadingly at the baron. "Sir, I was summoned here to offer my opinions about landing on Earth. You asked about possible cultural dangers. I've told you."
"You discussed the danger to earthlings."
"Yes, sir."
"I meant 'danger' to the personnel of this fleet—to their esprit, their indoctrination, their group-efficiency. I take it you see none."
"On the contrary, I see several," said the analyst, coming slowly to his feet, eyes flashing and darting among them. "Where were you born, Wingman?" he asked the officer at the opposite end of the desk.
"Lichter Six, Satellite," the officer grunted after a moment of irritable silence.
"And you?"
"Omega Thrush," said the other wingsman.