Oh, good heavens I'm mission reporter. That must be why there's no mission report. But we had a mission! Into space we flew, with water-themed lasers and in Skunk's case a jaunty naval hat, seeking to find and circumnavigate three pockets of heavy radiation. Wombat took on the duty of navigation.
We landed briefly in Central Constellation for snack molecules, then launched into a long, blissful hop through the starless night. From Harvard Constellation we sailed around Fresh Nebula without a check, then past Luna Alewife to loop around Spy Nebula. Was this where we saw a rocket ship? I know we saw a rocket ship.
Our swift flight continued past Lower and Upper Mystic Nebulae, cleaving the soft night with sonic beams of funk. There were almost no mechanicals except for something about St. Christopher's indicator chain, which thanks to Threespeed scarcely slowed us.
We halted next, of our own will, at an undisclosed hideout to enjoy radiation therapy and achieve the second mission objective: launch a miniaturized flotational radiation probe, complete with crew and nav nights, and recover it. Thanks to Red Squirrel for building the probe, for without it we would have failed this mission. Probe crewman Hammerhead and his droid remained alert throughout their mission and returned safely.
Cruising homeward, we made a casual landfall at Powderhouse Constellation to enjoy space tea and chalk up the place; then back to the fort with flags flying. Metaphorical flags of good morale, that is.
eXcEsS and Rocket burned up en route. No medals were awarded; no new ships were christened. No maggots were to be seen; however it is agreed that F-Stop and Johnny Five must be stripped of their maggot diapers at the earliest opportunity, to stand naked and proud as full-dress pilots.
I, Leotard, got space poison ivy while dumping fuel. Always remember pilots: leaves of three, here don't pee!