“I can.” The profoundly deep, but pleasantly and musically resonant voice went on; the fluent translation continued. “What I don’t know about atomic engines hasn’t been found out yet. I don’t know much about Bergenholms and a couple of other things pertaining solely to flight, and I don’t know _anything_ about communicators or detectors, which aren’t engineers’ business. I’ve laid in a complete supply of atomic service manuals for class S-C ships, and I tell you this—if anything with a motor or an engine in it aboard this vessel ever has run, I can take it apart and put it back together so it’ll run again. And by the way, you didn’t have half enough spare parts aboard, but you have now. Besides, you might need somebody to really swing that axe of yours, some day.” Cloud studied the Tomingan narrowly. She _wasn’t_ bragging, he decided finally. She was simply voicing what to her were simple truths. “Your arguments have weight. Why do you want the job?” “Several reasons. I’ve never done anything like this before, and it’ll be fun. Main reason, though, is that I think I’ll be able to talk you into doing a job on Tominga that has needed doing for a long time. I was a passenger, not an officer, on my way to talk to a party about ways of getting it done. You changed my mind. You and I, with some others who’ll be glad to help, will be able to do it better.” Tommie volunteered no more information, and Cloud asked no more questions. Explanation would probably take more time than could be spared. “Now you, Thlaskin,” the Blaster said in spaceal. “What have you got to say for yourself?” “You’ve got me on a hell of a spot, boss,” the pilot admitted, ruefully. “You’ve _got_ to have a pilot, no question about that. You already know I’m one. I know automatics, and communicators, and detectors—the works. Ordinarily I’d say you’d _have_ to have _me_. But this ain’t a regular case. I wasn’t a pilot on the heap that got knocked out of the ether, but a passenger. Maluleme—she’s my . . . say, ain’t there no word for. . . .” He broke off and spoke rapidly to his wife, who relayed it to Vesta. “They’re newlyweds,” the Vegian translated. “He was off duty and they were on their honeymoon. . . .” Vesta’s wonderfully expressive face softened, saddened. She appeared about to cry. “I wish _I_ were old enough to be a newlywed,” she said, plaintively. “Huh? Aren’t you?” the Blaster demanded. “You look old enough to me.” “Oh, I’m as big as I ever will be, and I won’t change outside. It’s inside. About half a year yet. But she’s saying— “We know that pilots on duty, in regular service, can’t have their wives aboard. But this isn’t a regular run, I know, so couldn’t you—just this once—keep Thlaskin on as pilot and let me come too? _Please_, Mr. Neelcloud—she didn’t know your name, but asked me to put it in—I can work my way. I’ll do any of the jobs nobody else wants to do—I’ll do _anything_, Mr. Neelcloud!”