Tom watched his unit-mate disappear and shook his head in amused
despair. Roger, he told himself, might be difficult, but he was
certainly never dull.
Then his attention was brought back to the monitors by the warning of
another approaching spaceship.
"... jet liner _San Francisco_ to Venus space-station traffic control
..." the metallic voice crackled over the speaker.
"Jet liner _San Francisco_, this is Venus space-station traffic
control," replied Tom. "You are cleared for landing at port
eleven--repeat--eleven. Make standard check for approach orbit to
station landing. End transmission!"
From one side of the circular dais, Tom saw Major Connel enter the room.
He snapped to attention and saluted smartly.
"Morning, Corbett," said Connel, returning Tom's salute. "Getting into
the swing of the operation?"
"Yes, sir," said Tom. "I've handled about twenty approaches since
Captain Stefens left me alone, and about fifty departures." Tom brought
his fist up, with the thumb extended and wiped it across his chest in
the traditional spaceman's signal that all was clear. "I didn't scratch
one of 'em, sir," he said, smiling.
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