"Hi there. Here's that gooloo bird's tail feather you asked for five or six years ago!" (It had been near twenty years ago, when the recipient was four years old.) "Hello, Honey. You know that Neptunian Rock Egg you wanted? Got a couple in my ship as big as your head. Come up to the hotel for supper tonight and I'll give them to you!" He winked roguishly at Honey and whirled into the control room. "Hi Joe, you landlocked lard-bottom. What have you been doing?" And before Joe could start to answer, he went on. "Had an unusual thing happen to me out on Pluto. I was out prospecting for liquid hydrogen wells when I sprung a leak in my oxygen tank. I got it fixed, but most of my oxy had leaked out. Had enough for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, and the ship was two hours away. Thought I'd never make it. Finally started back with a load of icicles under my arm. Every few minutes I'd stop, break off a piece, and drop it into my tank. Turned out to be pure oxygen, frozen stiff!" When Joe had regained his composure, he tossed a wink at the radar man, who was again standing with his mouth ajar. "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!" "But ships are bigger these days, Pop. When you were shoving them they couldn't have weighed over half a million tons. The one that's due this afternoon tops two million. That's a lot of ship." Pop Gillette shook his head derisively at such ignorance, which was, after all, to be expected from a ground crew man.