"Look at those extra fuel tanks and long-range mechs they gave her." "They must have agreed," his deputy says soothingly. He knows he's overreacting emotionally he has no adequate excuse for signaling her folks. But I cannot believe her parents consented to her tooting out here just to take a look at unknown stars… On the basis that if they did, they're certifiable imbeciles.
#Another word for things not to do how to
Oh, her ident's all in order - I've no doubt she owns that ship and knows how to run it, and knows the regs and it's her right to get cleared for where she wants to go - by a couple of days. "On the basis that I don't believe her story, I guess. "On the basis that I have a hunch that that infant is trouble looking for a place to happen," Exec says mournfully. The end of the Rift is just visible from this side of the asteroid Base 900 is dug into. Then she turns back to the dazzling splendor of the view beyond the port. A tall patrol captain passes in the throng they see the girl spin to stare at him, not with womanly appreciation but with the open-eyed unselfconscious adoration of a kid. They both watch the little straight-backed figure marching away. "I gather they're rich enough to stand it." "We ought to signal her folks c-skip collect," he mutters. The exec of FedBase 900 watches the yellow head bobbing down his main view corridor. Or - does she head straight for the nearest ship-fitters and blow most of her credit balance loading extra fuel tanks and long-range sensors onto the coupe, fuel it to the nozzles, and then - before the family's accountant can raise questions - hightail for the nearest Federation frontier, which is the Great North Rift beyond FedBase 900, where you can look right out at unknown space and stars?
#Another word for things not to do full
So you take this girl, this Coati Cass - her full name is Coatillia Canada Cass, but everyone calls her Coati-Īnd you give her a sturdy little space-coupe for her sixteenth birthday.ĭoes she use it to jaunt around the star-crowded home sector, visiting her classmates and her family's friends, as her mother expects, and sometimes showing off by running a vortex beacon or two, as her father fears? But she can get into her junior space suit in seventy seconds flat, including safety hooks. She's a late bloomer, which means the nubbins on her little chest could almost pass for a boy's and love, great Love, to her is just something pointless that adults do, despite her physical instruction. And she haunts the spaceport and makes friends with everybody who'll talk to her, and begs rides, and knows the controls of fourteen models of craft. She does a little math, too it's easy for her. She can name you the crew of every Discovery Mission she can sketch you a pretty accurate map of Federation Space and number the Frontier Bases she can tell you who first contacted every one of the fifty-odd races known and she knows by heart the last words of Han Lu Han when, himself no more than sixteen, he ran through alien flame-weapons to drag his captain and pilot to safety on Lyrae 91-Beta. And all she's dreamed of, since she was old enough to push a hologram button, are heroes of the First Contacts, explorers of far stars, the great names of Humanity's budding Star Age. Given one kid, yellow-head, snub-nose-freckles, green-eyes-that-stare-at-you-level, rich-brat, girl-type, fifteen-year-old. Heroes of space! Explorers of the starfields! THE ONLY NEAT THING TO DO James Tiptree, Jr
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