He hardly "heard" her. "I don't understand it," he said. "With such a high incidence of arrowway fatalities, and with so many bequeathed brains to choose from, why should the Company have chosen a woman's?" "You're overlooking the fact," she pointed out, "that in the majority of arrowway fatalities, the brain itself is in some way damaged, and you're overlooking the additional fact that ninety percent of the brains that have been bequeathed to the Company are intellectually and vocationally unsuited for symbiosis. I happened to be a qualified engineer, and apparently I possessed the requisite intelligence. In any event, I qualified, and here I am." "How old were you when you were killed?" he asked her. "Twenty-four. And you?" "I was twenty-six. The way I went in for arrowway travel, it was a wonder I lasted that long." He was thoughtful for a moment. Then, "I wonder if we got ourselves killed deliberately." "Probably. Most arrowway drivers do. And yet we hunger after immortality. It's a paradox, isn't it?" He realized to his surprise that he rather liked her. "What will you do after the base is completed?" he asked. "Help you build the next." "The whole project will be abandoned if we don't show results on this one--did they tell you that?" "Yes, they told me. As the first M.A.N. and W.O.M.A.N., we're Gorman and Oder Developments' last hope. If we fail, the Earth Government will break the contract. But we won't fail, will we?" Abruptly he visualized the face of a pretty, blue-eyed girl, and he knew somehow that it was her face--the face she had had in the land that had given her birth. "No," he said, "of course we won't fail. Come with me, and I'll show you what I've completed so far." * * * * * He helped her free herself from the huge foil chute that had borne her through the atmospheric maelstrom; then, side by side, they set off over the ragged hills. She spoke no more, and neither did he, till they reached the site of the base. Little was to be seen, save for the geometric pattern of the non-corrosive footings he had laid, and the small stockpile of structural steel he had begun to build up. "Our main concern now is production," he said. "What's your maximum open-hearth output, EV?" "Three hundred Earth-tons a day." He was dumfounded. "Why, I can only turn out one hundred and twenty-five!" "I was specially built," she said proudly. "The Company foresaw the need of me long ago." "But your mining operation will hold you up, and so will your pig-iron output. Your skip-arms aren't strong enough--I can tell that just by looking at you."