"I should," the bosun said. "It ain't everybody can be th' Sole Survivor." "That's true," the first mate said. "Well," he said after a minute, "I jest guess I know them there instructions fine as anything. I suspect we may as well start, iffen hits agreeable ta you." "I'm ready," the bosun said. The first mate took his penknife and tested the edge with his thumb. "Shore is sharp," he said. "Ought ta be. I jest got done a-honin' hit." * * * * * He walked over to where the bosun was hanging. "Well," he said. "No time like the present." He raised the knife. "Jest a minute," he said. "I think I'll get me some music on the radio. You don't mind?" "No," said the bosun. "Not a bit." The first mate walked to the hyperspace radio and flicked on the dial. After fiddling with it for some time, he picked up a symphony being broadcast from Kque. "There," he said, "that's th' kind uv music I shore do like ta hear." The music welled out and filled the room with sound. "Shore is purty," the bosun said. The first mate walked back to him. "Guess I'll start on your back," he said. He reached up and ripped the bosun's shirt off. Then, when the back was laid bare, he made a very shallow cut running the length of the shoulders from armpit to armpit. "Be kinda hard ta get started," he said. He put the penknife in the incision and began to pry the skin loose. "Gonna take me a long time ta get a hand holt," he said. "Course onct I do, hit'll be as easy as skinnin' a skunk." "Take yer time," the bosun said. "Aim to." The music turned quiet and sounded of the rippling brooks on far Corazon; it reflected the vast meadows of Nid and the giant, silver-capped mountains of Muri. A cello picked up the theme and ran it, in rich notes, over the whole surface of the dead world, Astolath. A whining oboe piped of the sweet winds from Zoltah; and the brass beat out the finny rhythm of the water world of Du. "'Scuse me," the first mate said. He laid down the penknife and walked to the radio. With a flick of his wrist, he cut it off. "What uz th' matter with hit?" the bosun asked. "Didn't ja notice?" said the first mate. "Th' third fiddle was sour." "Guess I wasn't listenin' close enough," said the bosun. The first mate returned to his work. "May as well get on with it," he said. He raised the penknife again. * * * * * Martha threw the door open. "Here!" she said. She swung Joey around in front of her by the left ear. "I'm going to have to leave him in here with you, where he won't get into trouble." The first mate laid aside the penknife. "Martha," he said, "I jest plain don't like kids." "I'm sorry," she said, "But I just can't keep him with the rest of the children. I just can't." "Whatud he do?" the bosun asked. "Do? Let me tell you," Martha said. "First, he...." "I didn't," Joey said. "I haint got no all day ta listen ta ya, woman," the first mate said.