"Say, Pop," Joe said with careful casualness. "All-Planetary's Mercury-Venus liner is coming in about oh-four-four."
Pop choked on a lungful of cigarote smoke, and, turning crimson through his space tan, glared at Joe.
"You better clear out of this tower, son. When that bunch of gears comes in, it's apt to take this whole side off the planet!"
Joe kept his face serious.
"I hear this is one of the new models," he said. "They only use the pilot for landings. Take-offs and cruising are all automatic."
Pop Gillette tossed his cigarote into the disposal in disgust.
"I wouldn't put it past that bunch of pants-brains to just point the things and light a fuse. Those young punks they have for pilots couldn't belly on the moon."
"But Pop," Joe said. "You're too old to work a liner even if they did go back to manuals."
Pop Gillette flashed red and purple, and glared at Joe.
"Too old! Do you know what I hit when I brought the Lorelei in just now? Fourteen damn G's! If she wasn't an old meteor patrol ship she'd crack open like an egg the way I handle her. Too old my space-warped rear!"