The pink girl nodded. Then, catching Cloud's eye, she pointed at the two monstrosities, then at the Manarkan nurse standing calmly near by. Startlingly slim, swathed to the eyes in billows of glamorette, she looked as fragile as a reed--but Cloud knew that appearances were highly deceptive in that case. She, too, nodded at the Tellurian, then talked rapidly in sign language to a short, thick-muscled woman of some race entirely strange to the Blaster. She was used to going naked; that was very evident. She had been wearing a light robe of convention, but it had been pretty well demolished in the melee and she did not realize that what was left of it was hanging in tatters down her broad back. The "squatty" eyed the gesticulating Manarkan and spoke in a beautifully modulated, deep bass voice to the Chickladorian eyeful, who in turn passed the message along to her husband. "The bonehead you had the argument with says to hell with you," the pilot translated finally into spaceal. "Says his mob will be out here after him directly, and if you don't cut him loose and give him all the dope on our Bergs he'll give us all the beam--plenty." Luda was, meanwhile, trying to attract attention. She was bouncing up and down, rattling her chains, rolling her eyes, and in general demanding notice of all. More communication ensued, culminating in, "The one with the fancy-worked skull--she's a frail, but not the other bonehead's frail, I guess--says pay no attention to the ape. He's a murderer, a pirate, a bum, a louse, and so forth, she says. Says to take your axe and cut his damn head clean off, chuck his carcass out the port, and get to hell out of here as fast as you can blast." Cloud figured that that might be sound advice, at that, but he didn't want to take such drastic steps without more comprehensive data. "Why?" he asked. But this was too much for the communications relays to handle. Cloud realized that he did not know spaceal at all well, since he had not been out in deep space very long. He knew that spaceal was a simple language, not well adapted to the accurate expression of subtle nuances of meaning. And all those intermediate translations were garbling things terrifically. He was not surprised that nothing much was coming through, even though the prettied-up monster was by this time practically throwing a fit. "She's quit trying to spin her yarn," the Chickladorian said finally. "She says she's been trying to talk to you direct, but she can't get through. Says to unseal your ports--cut your screens--let down your barrier--something like that. Don't know what she does mean, exactly. None of us does except maybe the Manarkan, and she can't get it across on her fingers." "Oh, my thought-screen!" Cloud exclaimed, and cut it forthwith.