The pink girl jumped up and took Cloud’s left hand in both her own. Simultaneously Vesta took his right hand in her left, brought it up to her face, and laid the incredibly downy softness of her cheek against the five-hour bristles of his; sounding the while a soft, low-pitched but unmistakable _purr_! “Just this once wouldn’t do any harm, would it, Captain Neelcloud?” Vesta purred. “You zmell _zo_ wonderful, and she zmells nice, too. _Pleeze_ keep her on!” “QX. You win!” The Blaster pulled himself loose from the two too-demonstrative females and addressed the group at large. “I think I ought to have my head examined, but I’m signing all of you on as crew. But _nobody else_. I’ll get the book.” He got it. He signed them on. Chief Pilot Thlaskin. Chief Engineer Tommie. Linguist Vesta. Doctor . . . what? He tried to call her attention by thinking at her, but couldn’t. Then, through Vesta: Manarkans didn’t have names, but were known by their personality patterns. Didn’t they sign something to documents? No, they used finger-prints only, without signatures. “But we’ve got to have _something_ we can put in the book!” Cloud protested. “Tell her to pick one.” “No preference,” Vesta reported. “I’m to do it. I knew a lovely Tellurian named “Nadinevandereckelberg” once. Let’s call her that.” “Nadine van der Eckelberg? Better not. Not common enough—there might be repercussions. We can use part of it, though. ‘Nadine,’ bracketed with her prints . . . there. Now how about Maluleme?” He turned to the “Classification” listing and frowned. “What to class _her_ as I’ll never know. She’s got just about as much business aboard this bucket as I would have in a sultan’s harem.” “You might find quite a lot—and _that_ I’d like to see!” Vesta snickered. “But look under ‘Mizzelaneouz,’ there.” Her stiff, sharp fingernail ran down the column almost to the end. “‘Zupercargo’? We have no cargo. ‘Zupernumerary’? That’s it! See? I read: ‘Zupernumerary—Perzonnel beyond the nezezzary or uzhual; ezpedjially thoze employed not for regular zervize, but only to fill the plazez of otherz in caze of need.’ Perfect!” “Whose place could _she_ fill?” “The cook’s—if the automatics break down,” Vesta explained, gleefully. “She says she can really cook—so even if they didn’t break down she can tape lots of nice things to eat that aren’t in your kitchen banks.” “Could be. I can get away with that. ‘Supernumerary (cook 1/c) Maluleme’ and her prints . . . there. Now we’re organized—let’s flit. Ready, Thlaskin?” “Ready, sir,” and the good ship _Vortex Blaster I_ took off. “Now, Vesta, I s’pose you’ve all picked out your cabins and got located?” “Yes, sir.” “QX. Tell ’em all, except Tommie, to go and do whatever they think they ought to be doing. Tell Tommie to sit down at the chart-table. We’ll join her. I want to find out what she’s got on her mind.”