"In blunt words, the life of a character caught in an awkward situation is more important than someone else losing their familiar stellar scenery and a couple of thousand years of climb up from the swamp of ignorance?" "That is another question which I'm sure we can solve. Now--" "Look," said Dusty firmly, "you agree to take measures for our safety and we'll agree to take measures for Scyth's. Do you understand exactly what I mean or shall I explain in very blunt words?" "That is blackmail." "It's worse than that. But we're primitive, and therefore lacking in refinement. As far as I am concerned, Transgalactic can keep their secret of our position locked in their sealed file. Scyth can die, and Bren and Chat can spend the rest of their lives marooned on Mercury." "No. That wouldn't be right. You must bring Scyth back home." "That's a fine idea! May I suggest that your ship is not as familiar as mine?" Dusty did not mention that the only control room he was familiar with was the one on the Gramer Production Lot, which was an aggregation of fantastic levers and flashing lights and futuristic three-phase busbars which had a most profound effect upon the imagination of the youth of the land but no effect upon space whatsoever. "This can be taken care of. As a spaceman, you can understand the principles. They are simple. You can follow directions for flight." "Yes? And which way do I go from here?" "Not so fast. First, Dusty Britton, tell me the present condition of Scyth Radnor." "Wait." * * * * * Dusty went below. Scyth was in a state of shock. His temperature "taken with the flat of Dusty's hand" was chill--and there was a film of perspiration wetting Scyth's body. The breathing was shallow and the face was pale. Scyth's pulse was weak and the heartbeat thin. Dusty turned a light blanket over the Marandanian and then went back to report. Gant Nerley said, "In the salon you will find a medicine cabinet. The instructions are simple, any intelligent being with a menslator should be able to follow them concisely. How is the bleeding?" "Stopped. Clotted by now." "Take care of Scyth, Dusty Britton. We'll figure out something for you." "How about this barytrine field that's running away with itself?" "We'll stop it. Behind you on the auxiliary panel you will see a knob and a pilot lamp, probably orange colored. Turn the knob to the left." Dusty did, and the lamp went out. "That's it. I see that Scyth has the usual sloppy habits of his kind. No label. According to space regulations the operator is supposed to slip a label into the frame above the auxiliary control whenever he has anything extra set up. I'll mark that oversight down on Scyth Radnor's record. Now--" "What about Chat and Bren and that variable-star maker?"