Who in hell wants to be a spaceman, Berne thought. To hell with that, and with this busybody of an old maid and his superior airs. He yawned.
"I'm going to hit the sack," he announced.
Hervey nodded. "I'm with you," he said. "We finish here tomorrow, soon's we run a check on power output. And then the run to Hermes Station."
He stretched. "Guess I'm getting old, Joe. I need my sleep before I strap down for blast-off. Seems like those G's hit me a lot harder than they used to." He looked admiringly at the bulk and muscles of his younger partner. "Now you're built to take acceleration. Me, I'm not—too skinny and too old."
Hervey unstrapped himself from his chair and drifted toward his bunk, pulling himself along by the handgrips.
"Be nice, someday," he uttered, "to walk to bed and go to sleep without locking myself in. And that reminds me...."
Berne looked up. "Yeah?"
"Joe, make sure you check the acceleration harnesses before we blast off tomorrow. I felt a little give in mine last time. I don't aim to get shoved clear through my own firing chamber bulkhead one of these days."
"Sure, Sam."
Berne had felt the give in his own harness, he remembered. The ship was getting old; she needed to be refitted before her next trip out. Like those harnesses, for instance. The strain against them was terrific.... That is when it burst on him, flooding his mind with its perfection and simplicity. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of it before?