“Steady, Joan!” Cloud was surprised at his companion’s funk. “Only three tenths of a second to get yet, is all.” “_Only_ three tenths—what d’you mean, _only_?” the woman snapped. “Don’t you know that those three tenths of a second are just about in the same class as the three thousandths of a degree just above zero absolute?” “Sure I do, but I know you, too. You’re really blasting, little chum. Both Jane and Katy, you remember, were just as apt to be off track as on. You’ll get it, Joan. As Vesta says, ‘Tail high sister!’” “Thanks, Storm. I needed that. You see, to keep her on track we had to put in more internal memory banks and that slowed her down . . . we’ll have to dream up some way of getting the information out of those banks faster. . . .” “Can you tinker her—what’ll the next version be? Margie?—up en route, or do you want to keep this ship near Sol while you work on it? Phil tells me I’ve got to flit for Chickladoria—and chop-chop, like quick.” “Oh . . . Thlaskin and Maluleme have been crying in his beer, too, as well as yours?” “I guess so, but that wasn’t it. It’s next on the list, an urgent—they’ve been screaming bloody murder for months. So, with or without a brain, I’ve got to blast off.” “Start blasting as soon as you like, just as we are,” she decided instantly. “Much more important, at this stage, to work with you than to have Earth’s resources close by. Besides, I think everything we’re apt to need is already aboard—machine shop, electronics labs, materials, and experts.” “QX.” He gave orders. Then: “As for me, I’m going to hit the sack. I’m just about pooped.” “I don’t wonder. That kind of stuff takes a lot of doing. ’Night, Storm.” _Chapter 11_ ▂▂▂▂▂▂JOAN THE TELEPATH THE FOLLOWING MORNING, en route to the planet of the pink humanoids, Cloud was studying a scratch-chart of the First Galaxy. He had been working on the thing for weeks; had placed several hundred crossed circles, each representing a loose atomic vortex. He was scrawling weird-looking symbols and drawing freehand connecting lines when Joan came swishing into the “office.” “Good morning, Effendi of Esoterica!” she greeted him gaily. “How’s the massive intellect? Firing on all forty barrels, I hope and trust?” “Missing on all forty is more like it. Ideas are avoiding me in droves.” He looked her over amiably, in what he hoped she would think was a casual way. He’d found himself doing quite a lot of that, lately . . . but she was _such_ a swell egg! Why hadn’t she ever married? What a waste _that_ was! Face a bit on the strong side for vapid calendar-girl prettiness, but. . . . “But kind of attractive, at that, in her own gruesome way, eh?” she finished the thought for him. “Huh?” Cloud gulped, and, for the first time in years, blushed scarlet; flushed to the tips of his ears.