She was sitting outside the Post on Bologomo, counting scrip while some yokel and his hired help loaded crates onto a sliplifter. She looked like she knew her way around; I asked where there was a pilot’s bar.
“You a pilot?”
“I’m a pilot’s bar aficionado. Love the ambience. Never flown so much as a kite.”
She didn’t bother asking if I was kidding; professionals can smell professionals. “I’m headed that way. You looking for work or just liquor? Or maybe tail?”
“Do I have to decide now?”
Been working for her three years now. We only banged the once.
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