“The bonehead you had the argument with says to hell with you,” the pilot translated to Cloud in spaceal. “He says his mob will be out here after him directly, and if you don’t cut him loose and give him the dope he wants they’ll burn us all to cinders.” Luda was, meanwhile, trying to attract attention. She was bouncing up and down, rattling her chains, rolling her eyes, and in general demanding notice. More communication ensued, culminating in: “The one with fancy-worked skull—she’s a frail, but not the other bonehead’s frail, I guess—says pay no attention to the ape. He’s a murderer, a pirate, a bum, a louse, and so forth, she says. Says to take your axe—it’s _some_ cleaver, she says, and I check her to ten decimals on that—cut his goddam head clean off, chuck his stinking carcass out the port, and get the hell out of here as fast as you can blast.” That sounded to Cloud like good advice, but he didn’t want to take such drastic action without more comprehensive data. “Why?” he asked. But this was too much for the communications relays to handle. Cloud did not know spaceal any too well, since he had not been out in deep space very long. Also, spaceal is a very simple language, not well adapted to the accurate expression of subtle nuances of thought; and all those intermediate translations were garbling things up terrifically. Hence Cloud was not surprised that nothing much was coming through, even though the prettied-up monster was, by this time, just about throwing a fit. “She’s quit trying to spin her yarn,” the pilot said finally. “She says she’s been trying to talk to you direct, but she can’t get through. Says to unseal your ports—cut your screens—let down your guard—something like that, anyway. Don’t know what she does mean, exactly. None of us does except maybe the Manarkan, and if she does she can’t get it across on her fingers.” “Perhaps my thought-screen?” Cloud cut it. “More yet,” the Chickladorian went on, shortly. “She says there’s another one, just as bad or worse. On your head, she says. . . . No, on your head-bone—what the hell! Skull? No, _inside_ your skull, she says now. . . . Hell’s bells! I don’t know what she _is_ trying to say!” “Maybe I do—keep still a minute, all of you.” A telepath undoubtedly, like the Manarkans—that was why she had to talk to her first. He’d never been around telepaths much—never tried it. He walked a few steps and stared directly into one pair of Luda’s eyes—large, expressive eyes, now soft and gentle. “That’s it, chief! Now blast away . . . baffle your jets . . . relax, I guess she means. Open your locks and let her in.”