He had been only pilot, not a Chief Pilot, and Helen Troy had been high-school junior, when they had met.

At first she was just another fresh young face in a sea of fresh young faces, each with its high young breasts to match. The girls came to find out about being airline hostesses, maybe. Often the high school would set aside a room where Captain Hastings could fill-in this gap in their unsophisticated wondering about the world of jobs.

The trick was not to be too obvious about the sexual angle, especially when some gimlet-eyed dragon of a female Occupational Counselor chose to sit-in.

On the other hand, Hank Hastings enjoyed the challenge. He had to get over to these dewy girls, somehow, that being an airline hostess had a lot to do with sex. And when a girl hostessed for Wanderlust Airlines, the job oozed sex at every pore.

He had to make this clear but not say it out loud, so to speak. And especially he had to make clear that any girl who knocked at Wanderlust Airlines door would deal with an outfit that gave sex first place.

At first this gave him plenty of trouble.

Take a virile man standing before a dozen or twenty dewy young things, shuffling his notes, clearing his throat. And all the time he is imagining how great it would be to line them all up naked and feel his way along a row of pairs of pink-tipped high-borne breasts, cupping, patting, gauging size and weight, perhaps kissing here and there to judge nipple sensitivity. And then say, along with a pat on the rump: you and you and you, report for hostess training.

A fantasy, of course, but even imagining it gave him a hard-on. All he could do was to hold his sheaf of notes across his crotch. But even so, some girls would whisper and giggle.

The Occupational Counselor might even shuffle her feet uneasily. This could be bad for business.