"Christ, how long until we're there already?" Deming asked, cracking an ‘am I right?’ smile that scrunched up his fair, twenty-something face to look even younger. Of the couple weak laughs he got from the rest of his team, none were from Russel Dunlap, and not just because it was Deming's fifth time pointing it out this trip. "Hey, Dunlap," came the voice of Dunlap's personal albatross over the Pelican's engine whine, "want to take bets on just how long we have left?" Why choose me, asshole? Dunlap thought, but gave only an indecisive shrug. "Nah." "By your word, Hand."