Cloud pondered. He would have to do something, but what? That vortex had to be snuffed; but, with the whole Nhalian army to cope with, how could he make the approach? His vortex-bombing flitter was screened against radiation, not war-beams. His cruiser was clothed to stop anything short of G-P primaries, but it would take a month at a Patrol base to adapt her for vortex work . . . and he’d have to analyze it, anyway, preferably from the ground. He had no beams, no ordinary bombs, no nega-bombs. How could he use what he had to clear a station? “Draw me a map, will you, Luda?” he asked. She did so. The cratered vortex, where an immense building had been. The ring of fortresses: two of which were unusually far apart, separated by a parkway and a shallow lagoon. “Shallow? How deep?” Cloud interrupted. She indicated a depth of a couple of feet. “That’s enough map, then. Thanks.” Cloud thought for minutes. “You seem to be quite an engineer. Can you give me exact details on your defensive screen? Power, radius, weave-form, generator type, phasing, interlocking, blow-off, and so on?” She could. Complex mathematical equations and electrical formulae flashed through his mind, each leaving a residue of fact. “Maybe we can do something,” the Blaster said finally, turning to the Chickladorian. “Depends pretty much on our friend here. Are you a pilot, or just an emergency assignment?” “Master pilot, Rating unlimited, tonnage or space.” “Good! Think you’re in shape to take three thousand centimeters of acceleration?” “Pretty sure of it. If I was right I could take three thousand standing on my head. I’m feeling better all the time. Let’s hot ’er up and find out.” “Not until after we’ve unloaded these passengers somewhere,” and Cloud went on to explain what he had in mind. “Afraid it can’t be done.” The pilot shook his head glumly. “Your timing has got to be too ungodly fine. I can do the piloting, meter the blast, and so on. I can balance her down on her tail, steady to a hair, but piloting’s only half what you got to have. Pilots never land on a constant blast, and your leeway here is damn near zero. To hit it as close as you want, your timing has got to be accurate to a tenth of a second. You don’t know it, mister, but it’d take a master computer half a day to. . . .” “I know all about that. I’m a master computer and I’ll have everything figured. I’ll give you a zero exact to plus-or-minus a hundredth.” “QX, then. Let’s dump the non-combatants and flit.” “Luda, where shall we land them? And maybe you’d better call out your army and navy—we can’t blow out that vortex until we control both air and ground.” “Land them there.” Luda swung the plate and pointed. “The call was sent long since. They come.”