“Luna Base in an hour,” Johnson says, throttling down our bullet-shaped rocket.
Tex, our co-pilot, lights a cigarette and runs a comb through his slick hair. Doc slips his slide rule into a pocket.
“Oh, Brock,” she whispers, bright red lips gently brushing my earlobe. “Are you sure I can’t give you some reward for saving Skalix 9 from those horrible Bugmen?” Her eyes shine.
“Not necessary.” I pull her closer; she yields willingly.
“Just keeping the galaxy safe for white Protestant republicans everywhere, ma’am.” I kiss her hard.