PATCH By WILLIAM SHEDENHELM Old pilots like Pop Gillette weren't needed any more to run the big ships. Nowadays you were boosted and roosted by the grace of Gimmick. Sooner or later, Pop predicted, something was gonna louse up.... [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The wall speaker in the control tower was crackling softly with space static when the voice first cut in. "Lorelei calling Venusport for landing. Over." Even across ten thousand miles of space the sharp New England twang clearly showed the origin of its owner. Joe flicked the transmitting stud and winked at the radar man. "Venusport to Lorelei. Come on in, you old space pirate. Use Ramp Four. Out." He glanced at the green spot on the radar sweep screen that was the Lorelei, entered a set of figures in the tower log, then leaned back in the chair in front of the control panels and lit a cigarette. "That Pop," he said, nodding vaguely at the radar screen and the log book, "must be damn near two hundred years old, and he's still the best pilot in the System. Used to have the All-Planetary run back when it was really something. When they put in automatics for cruising it made him so mad he quit and never would go back. Said he wasn't going to let a bunch of machines run his ship, even out in space." He blew a beam of smoke at the spot that moved slowly toward the center of the radar sweep screen. "He bought the tub he calls the Lorelei at a surplus sale, and spends all his time batting around the odd corners of space that the Survey Patrol hasn't gotten to yet." Joe puffed his cigarette reminiscently for a minute. "I remember the first time I saw him land the Lorelei. Lord, what a sight. No one else has ever had the nerve to try it the way he does it, or at least lived to tell about it. I wonder if he's gotten too old to do it anymore." The radar man stared at the faint speck that showed above the horizon, then brought it into magnified focus on the tele-screen. "He's coming in awfully funny," he said. Joe got up and stood staring out through the sides of the big plastic bubble that formed the walls and roof of the control tower. "I think he's going to try it. Watch this!" * * * * * The stubby ovaloid was angling in towards the Port from a little above horizontal, as though to make a belly landing. Just short of the field, the steering jets gave a tremendous side blast that whipped the ship into a tight upward arc. All the ship's jets winked out, and the ship whistled straight up for over a mile, began to slow, and dropped back in free fall. The ship dropped faster and faster toward the concrete apron, tail first, its jets dead.