“Whoever is piloting that can went to school just one day in his life and that day it rained and the teacher didn’t come,” Henderson snorted. “And he’s trying to balance her down on her tail—look at her bounce and flop around! He’s just begging for a c***k-up.”
“If he makes it, it’ll be bad—plenty bad,” Kinnison mused. “He’ll gain a lot of time on us while we’re rounding the globe on our landing spiral.”
“Why spiral, Kim? Why not follow him down, huh? Our intrinsic is no worse than his—it’s the same one, in fact.”
“Get conscious, Hen. You haven’t got a speedster under you now.”
“So what? I can certainly handle this scrap heap a damn sight better than that ground-gripper is handling that speedster.” Henry Henderson, Master Pilot No. 1 of the Service, was not bragging. He was merely voic
