* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"They must have made that director's helmet too tight, because you haven't made the smallest bit of sense and I'm the one in the drink tank," said Wilson, shaking his unshaved head blearily as he sat perched precariously on the edge of his prison bunk.
"Well," the Director General replied calmly, "You have one of the fastest ships with a large payload capacity. It may be converted convolution of—er—used parts, but no one can deny it can go!"
"I could understand wanting the Dragon, though not officially wanting it, but not me," he returned suspiciously, "And it's not like you to try flattery, especially on me."
"Would you let anyone else pilot the Dragon?"
"Hell, no! No one else could, either. She's keyed to me personally and she flies like no other ship. But it still doesn't explain it. There's fifty ships in the dock that are almost 60 percent as good as the Dragon or even more so 'officially' and 100 pilots better than me—or at least less trouble."
"I have to admit, it's a novel experience talking to you sober though it is rather unnerving to talk to you when you're lucid. I'm surprised that you have a glimmer of intelligence, though I'd heard rumors."
"Yea. Thanks. Please, flattery doesn't impress me unless you're pretty and female."
"Yes, well, to answer your question, while there are pilots infinitely less trouble than you, I disagree that there are any better than you. You may not have your father's diplomacy, but you certainly have his flying skills."
"Dear old Dad, the honorable Ambassador Wilson, would disagree that I got anything from him. Thanks Dad, generous with the talent and stingy with the dough." Wilson raised his coffee cup in salute.
"But, I assure you, Wilson, we shall not be."
Wilson looked up at the Director General speculatively. "You'll give me back my Dragon plus a bit of cash, right?"
"Yes."
"And everything I've done here will be forgotten?"
"Forgiven anyway."
"Am I talented or just expendable? I'm guessing the latter."
"Believe me, we have every expectation of you coming back."
"Un-huh. Let me get this straight. You're trusting me, an alcoholic penniless troublemaker, with a secret mission involving an experimental method of breaking into another dimension and finding a place to colonize before Rega blows, which is sooner than everyone suspects. All this with no strings and you expecting me to come back. Right?"
"Exactly," the Director General confirmed, smiling, seemingly pleased with Wilson's quick grasp of things.
"Un-huh. Oh well, it beats dying of boredom or delirium tremens here, or, even worse, getting a telecom lecture from Daddy dear. I'm a gambler. I'll go. What have I got to lose?"
"I'm glad you agree. I was sure you would. We'll program the coordinates and you can leave by the end of the week." The Director General opened the door of the drunk tank. "Believe me, Mr. Wilson, we were not even considering another pilot for this job."
Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing Page 10