"The power drain of this widget of yours has me worried," I complained. "The secondaries are already running overloaded." As pilot-engineer, power was my responsibility. Professor Tim Harrigan looked around, but not in his usual quick, birdlike way, and his eyes were dull. "I'm sorry, Olsen." His voice sounded as though something were missing. "I haven't been able to reduce input requirements yet. The circuit changes keep eluding me." Worms started squirming inside me. If the Professor, with his brilliant brain, were getting the Complex-- "Polly will tell Mike to be careful of power," he tried to reassure me. Naturally Polly was scheduled to handle the ground end. She usually did whenever we were testing one of the Professor's inventions. In some ways she was more like a partner than a daughter to him. The set in the Professor's laboratory was rigged for her, while the Hustic aboard ship was adjusted to Mike's brain-wave pattern. That's right. The thing we were going to test en route to Mars was the Harrigan Unimodulate Subetheric Telepathic Interspatial Communicator. Yes, I know that officially the Hustic wasn't invented until nearly a year later. Keeping it under wraps after what it did was one of our security measures. We were afraid someone might add two and two and get us hanged, shot, stabbed, defenestrated, etc. That first set was a bulky, power-hogging, spit-and-solder job very different from the perfected, foolproof, universal-type transceivers that have now replaced the clumsy old Luminophones on all interplanetary routes. Terence Michael Burke, our red-headed astrogator, was standing as close to Polly as he could get, and from the gleam in his eye he was quoting some more of his abominable romantic poetry at her. But she wasn't responding as usual. Not even blushing. She just stood there looking pale and wan, frozen up inside. Typical symptoms of the Complex, and it made me wince. Mike looked around, missed something, and turned to me. "Where'd you put my books?" he demanded. "Cargo hold," I growled at him. "Had to use that space for the Hustic modulator." "Barbarian squarehead!" he yelped. "If you'd gas off to sleep like a human being--!" I squawked right back at him. The Wilsons weren't warming yet, but already my nerves were tightening up in anticipation. "Come on, Polly," he said. But she didn't follow him until he took her hand. Mike was born in San Francisco, but he's a professional Irishman. Red Irish. And a prolifically lousy poet. Had a picture of himself as the spiritual descendent of Fin McCool and Francois Villon and Robin Hood and Sir Henry Morgan and all the other poet-adventurers and troublemakers of history. He was one of those romantics--and still is.