"I'm at the Lodge," Morrow replied. Gwyn was watching him, wide-eyed. "The girl is with me. We've got the stuff. I'll have to bring it one at a time to you, over!" "_Angel One, are you observed? Repeat, are you observed? Over._" Morrow scowled in puzzlement. "Nobody here but us chickens," he quipped back. "What're you driving at, over?" "_Do not attempt to bring stuff here_," Smitty's voice taunted him. "_You might drop something. Remain at your position--we'll come there!_" Morrow's mouth went slack. Of course! He should've thought-- "_Cloud Two to Angel One! Acknowledge, please. Over._" "Okay, guys!" he snapped. "Roger, wilco, over and out!" He switched off the set, angrily. But what was he angry about? He wasn't sure. Something was wrong, somewhere. Somehow, things just weren't working out right. "They're--coming here?" Gwyn asked hesitantly. "Sure," he retorted, his tones unnecessarily brusque. "They're coming here." "Oh." She gripped the steering wheel and stared ahead, not looking at him. "Gwyn--" Morrow started around the car, around to her side to open the door and lift her out-- A faint, whining sound came from above as he reached the front of the car. He stopped and looked up, startled. The sleek, black ship settled down to the white snow before them. A sort of strangling gasp came from Gwyn, then she was out of the car and standing beside him, clutching his arm tightly. The thick door swung open on the faintly gleaming hull. A figure in bright, snug garments, with a dark globe of a giant head, floated out of the door and came gliding toward them. It swung its legs down and settled to a crouch in the snow in front of them. "Well?" the strange, dark globe-head drawled. "Don't I rate an introduction?" * * * * * The batteries were installed. The old ones they replaced were stored on the cargo deck to be recharged when the ship had returned home. The forward lounge was bright, warm, and cheerful, with the ultra-modern interior fittings and deep, foam-rubber chairs and the moonlit snow and trees outside the long port-holes' slits. Gwyn sat between Smitty and Morrow, holding her cup out for Foster to pour her coffee. Foster poured with a deft flourish. He had his jacket tied around his waist as an apron. "I've always maintained," he observed with mock seriousness, "that the woman's touch is absolutely essential to the success of any project attempted by man!" "Quite true," Smitty agreed, going along with the gag. "Though I'm not a lace-curtains man, mind you. Just lace." He grinned wolfishly at Gwyn. "Being a married man, myself," Foster went on, pouring himself a cup of coffee, "I have so accustomed my tastes to minor discrepancies as practiced by the fairer sex that I'm no longer disturbed by such. Nylon stockings and underthings hanging all over the bathroom, for example. As one gets used to that sort of thing--" "Hear, hear!" Smitty chanted.