"Usually."
Pierpont looked at him strangely. "I don't blame you, I suppose. But it
isn't as bad these days as it used to be while you were still in the
Space Service, sir."
Don grunted. "How come? Two weeks to a month, all by yourself, watching
the symptoms of space cafard progress. Then three weeks of leave, to get
drunk in, and then another stretch in space."
The pilot snorted deprecation. "That's the way it used to be." He
fingered the spoon of his coffee cup. "That's the way it still should
be, of course. But it isn't. They're spreading the duty around now and I
spend less than one week out of four on patrol."
Don hadn't been listening too closely, but now he looked up. "What'd'ya
mean?"
Pierpont said, "I mean, sir, I suppose this isn't bridging security,
seeing who you are, but fuel stocks are so low that we can't maintain
full patrols any more."
There was a cold emptiness in Don Mathers' stomach.