“Did you pack our pilot in there too?” “No, I’m right here.” Foster frowned at the vague familiarity of the voice but couldn’t quite pinpoint its owner until he glanced at the doorway. There, a guy his own age stood with dark hair styled into a sweep, an olive glow to his complexion, and a spacer’s half-visor over one eye. Davis Banda. No fodding way. Foster’s head whipped back to Grady with a barely suppressed growl. “That’s our pilot?”
