ower stations —so that Mrs. Jones, whose old man is vice deputy assistant fifteenth gardener at the hydroponics factory has an iron hot enough to press her panties ... So that little, spotty-faced Billy Smith can tune his video to Clancy of the Space Patrol. So that ..." Petrie laughed bitterly, looking up at the Jovian Mail liner Thunderchild whose great, gray bulk towered above them as they spoke. "Yes," he admitted. "You're right, Ludlow. The ships exist for the colonists—not the colonists for the ships. But—I made my first Deep Space voyage in her . .. It was her maiden voyage, too. Then I was Third Pilot of her. And Engineer. I missed Second Pilot, but I came back to her as Chief, then as Commander. And when, at last, I was made Master of her she was mine . . ." His big hands clenched tightly shut as he spoke. He laughed again. "If only she were mine!" "Captain Petrie. May I quote you on that?" "You may not." Petrie looked at Hales, of Solar Press, with undisguised
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