Of course they were both several
years ahead of him in Service, Dane knew. But he wondered at their quick
assumption of responsibility and whether he himself could ever reach
that point of self-confidence--his memory turning to the bad mistake be
had made on Sargol.
There was the sharp note of a warning gong, the flash of red light on the
control board. They were off automatic, from here on in it was all Kip's
work. Dane strapped down at the silent com-unit and was startled a moment
later when it spat words at him, translated from space code.
"Identify--identify--I-S E-Stat calling spacer--identify--"
So compelling was that demand that Dane's fingers went to the answer key
before he remembered and snatched them back, to fold his hands in his
lap.
"Identify--" the expressionless voice of the translator droned over their
heads.
Rip's hands were on the control board, playing the buttons there with the
precision of a musician creating some symphonic masterpiece. And the
Queen was alive, now quivering through her stout plates, coming into a
landing.
Dane watched the visa plate.
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