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The pilots were plugged into their boat communicators. If a boat got near enough, he could turn up his bubble to full volume and yell. Not only would the boat pilot hear him, but his voice would go through the pilot’s circuit and be heard in the ship! Rip grabbed Koa’s arm. "Let’s move away from the cave a little farther."
Even the heaviest crates weighed almost nothing. They passed them from one to the other like balloons. "All clear, sir," Koa called. Rip stepped inside and made a quick inspection. The box was empty except for the spaceman pilot. He put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. "On your way, Rocky. Thanks." "You’re welcome, sir." The pilot added, "Watch out for high vack."
O’Brine stiffened as the speaker threw Rip’s voice at him, amplified and hollow-sounding from reverberations in the boat pilot’s helmet. "O’Brine is so ugly he won’t look at his face in a clean blast tube! That no-good Irishman wouldn’t know what to do with an asteroid if he had one!" The commander turned purple with rage. He bellowed, "Foster!"
“I am the pilot, sir,” Jack replied. “Why, you’re a boy.” “Guilty,” Jack responded. “What does this fooling mean? You’re not old enough to hold a pilot’s license.” By this time Benson was on the deck, immediately under the bridge. A half dozen sailors, forward, were eyeing him curiously. “I have no license, sir,” Jack admitted. “Neither has anyone else at Dunhaven.
The fighting rocket drew closer, cut in its nose tube, and hovered only a few hundred feet above the Planeteers. Rip summoned enough strength to make his voice sharp and clear. His words sped through space into the bubble of the pilot, echoed in the helmet and were picked up by the pilot’s microphone, then hurled through the snapper-boat circuit through space to the control room of the cruiser.
"Did you fall?" "No; we controlled our landing pretty well." "Where did you land?" There was a second’s hesitation; the airman looked at Wayland, glanced at his crippled leg. "Out there near some woods," he said. "My pilot’s there now trying to patch up.... You are not French, are you?" "American." "Oh! A volunteer, I presume." "Foreign Legion 2d." "I see. Back from the trenches with a leg."
Federation fighter craft were slim and streamlined, even though the streamlining was of no use whatever in space. With blast holes at each end, they looked like double-ended needles. The pilot’s canopy in the center controlled guns that fired through the front only. Rear guns were handled by a gunner, who sat with back to the pilot.
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