"Anything but the running and operating gear of the Lens stations," said McBride, "is subject to change without notice. I've even seen a spare mech-grav generator used to counterbalance Jim Lear's teeter-totter. Jim's dad is on Station 3 and there isn't any kid of that size and age on Three. Did a good job, too, since Bob Lear fixed the mech-grav density control with a switch that urged the far end of the plank so that Jim was lifted and dropped at the right speed." "Sort of expensive counterbalance, wasn't it?" "I suppose so, but Bob said it was better than having to crank his son up and down by hand. Besides, we have lots of power out at the Lens." McBride paused. "Say. Do you run the _Haywire Queen_ with this crew? Who's pilot?" "Hannigan. But he got hurt when the works blew up. He ran us in all right, though any of us can take a trick at landing. But he's taking a rest cure to soothe his nerves; they got a scrambling from too much electricity." "Too bad." "Not so bad. Just made him jittery. He'll be all right in a week. But we won't have to run home without a pilot. I've got one coming out in a couple of hours. Drake. Ever heard of a pilot named Drake?" "Seems to me that the name is familiar," said McBride slowly. "But not too clear, I'll know him when I see him." "I won't. Conducted the hiring by mail, and then gave him a call when the need came--your need, I mean. They told me that Drake was out of the building, but that he'd be at Hellsport as soon as they could find him. Has a pretty good record, too, save for one thing--" "Steve," said one of the men, "can you give us a lift? The _Beetle's_ alphatron is somewhat heavier than we can handle around this corner." "Sure. And the next time we're at Terra, have 'em fix the hoist rail, huh?" * * * * * Wires, bunched cables, and scraps were a tangled mess on the floor. Tools were strewn about in profusion. A box of nuts and bolts had overturned and cascaded the small parts across the floor below the workbench. But the work was progressing in fine shape in spite of the seeming confusion and messiness. To someone who knew these men, it was obvious that they knew their business and how to use their tools even though the place was ankle deep in junk. To someone who knew them not, the place looked like a junk shop. "Is this the place where the finest brains in space work out the intricate problems?" asked a cool contralto with a cynical tone. McBride, who had just finished welding a small angle bracket on the bottom of the mech-grav generator, looked up, blinked, did a double take, and then stood up. The torch burned the air in his limp fingers, wasting the canned gas. "You! Drake! _Sandra_ Drake!" "Is there another?" asked the saucy voice. "I thought that Sandy was a nickname," snapped Hammond. "It's Sandra," said she, "and it looks to me that your friend McBride is always up to his ears in junk!"