Pop Gillette tugged at Joe's sleeve. Joe started to shake him loose, but stopped when he felt the old man's grip tighten on his arm like a space grapple. "Let me have that thing," he said. He took the mike from Joe and flipped the stud. "Hey there! What's your cargo?" The speaker was silent for a moment, other than for the faint crackle of the space static. Then the voice cut in again, a little more resigned than before, as it rattled off the list of cargo. "Let's see. We've got twenty tons of unrefined uranium from Titan, fifty thousand gallons of mercury from Gany, and twenty tons of canned wooklah meat from Jupe. At least we can live on wooklah meat on our way to Alpha Centauri." He laughed nervously. "Boy, is All-Planetary going to be mad, at a hundred bucks a can. Over." Pop Gillette scratched his chin reflectively. Finally he shook his head in disgust. "I could have told that bunch of fat-headed clod-lubbers they couldn't trust a bunch of machinery. If they'd of had a pilot watching the screens instead of some half-baked crewman, this wouldn't have happened. Easiest thing in the world to blast around a meteor, but try to tell that to _that_ bunch." He spat in disgust. "I swore I'd never lift a hand for All-Planetary again as long as I lived, but now I guess I'll have to go up and fix that damned liner. First vacation I've had in five years and I have to play nurse-maid to a bunch of half-wits!" He glared at Joe. "Well, are you coming or aren't you?" Joe looked at him blankly. Pop Gillette shook his head sadly at the mental level of Venusport's personnel. "Somebody's got to bring the Lorelei back down, don't they? Lord, the people they put in responsible positions these days.... Come on! Get the cadmium out!" And he was halfway down the stairs before Joe was on his feet. "And bring a roll of scotch tape!" he shouted back. What happened after that is pretty well a matter of the records. Every telecast carried the report for days. Pop Gillette got aboard the liner by bringing the Lorelei alongside. Then, with Joe holding her steady as she went, Pop jumped across the twenty feet of open space, scotch tape in his space suit pocket, to the liner's open port. Then he brought the liner down for a tail landing, as pretty as you please. * * * * * It was ten minutes later that Pop Gillette and Joe sat drinking their Venusian wine again, watching the ground crews welding a new plate on the liner, a mile away across the Port. "But how did you do it?" Joe asked. "And why the scotch tape?" Pop Gillette deftly poured a tumbler of wine down his throat and reached for the bottle. "Simplest thing in the world. I used the tape to stick a couple of bed sheets over the hole, inside and out." Joe stared at him in puzzlement. "Bedsheets? What for?"