“...Whitworth leisurely, carefully looking at his feet, walked to the parking lot of his aeropile, around which junior technicians were already fussing. Just in case, the count walked around the device in a circle, inspecting the racks and guy wires. My head was buzzing like an empty cauldron, I didn’t want to do anything. Coming full circle, Michael stood at the bow and stared for several minutes at the technician's skinny ass sticking out from under the open engine hood. However, in fact, he looked “through”, not really seeing either the technician or even the aeropile itself. I couldn't concentrate. His body was filled with a dull black fatigue, as if he had not slept all night, but sat at his breeches, drinking cheap local liquor, his hands did not obey, his eyelids were trying to stick together. With difficulty tearing his gaze away from the soldier’s ass, Michael began to watch five hundred pound bombs being hung on the underwing pylons...”