“Oh, my sweet summer child," Bob said quietly, "what do you know of fear?

Fear is for the wormholers, when the tacks are a hundred feet off and the
frigs comes howling out of the blue flare. Fear is for the long night of hole
control, when the caps hide its hull for days at a time, and little capsuleers
are born and live and die all in darkness of the void while the drifters grow
gaunt and hungry, and the sleepers move wave after wave through the sites”