"Me again. The _Ganymede's_ whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.
We celebrated a bit too freely."
Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. "That was the night
after the _Ganymede_ broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,
wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about...."
"Canalopolis?"
Whitley nodded.
"That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a Tellurian
Embassy Ball."
"I begin to see what you mean, Captain."
"Strike's the name, Cob."
Whitley's smile was expansive. "Strike, I think you're going to like
our old tin pot here." He patted the _Aphrodite's_ nether belly
affectionately. "She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely to
meet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either."
Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek _Ganymede_. "She'll
carry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her."
Cob shrugged philosophically. "Better than tanking that stinking rocket
fuel, anyway. Deep space?"