"You're crazy, Lacy! Why, we ... she—It's all fixed up."
"Funny kind of fixing. Moping around Base, crying her red head off. Finally, though, she decided that she had some Scotch pride left, and I let her go aboard again. If she isn't all done with you, she ought to be." This, Lacy figured, would be good for what ailed the big saphead. "Come on, and I'll see whether you're fit to go back to work or not."
He was fit. "QX, lad, flit!" Lacy discharged him informally with a slap upon the back. "Get dressed and I'll take you back to Haynes—he's been snapping at me like a turtle ever since you've been out here."
At Prime Base, Kinnison was welcomed enthusiastically by the admiral.
"Feel those fingers, Kim!" he exclaimed. "Perfect! Just like the originals!"
"Mine, too. They do feel good."
"It's a pity that you got your new ones so quick. You'd appreciate 'em much more after a few years without 'em. But to get down to business. The fleets have been taking off for a couple of weeks—we're to join up as the line passes. If you haven't anything better to do, I'd like to have you aboard the Z9M9Z."
"I don't know of any place I'd rather be, sir—thanks."
"QX. Thanks should be the other way. You can make yourself mighty useful between now and zero time." He eyed the young man speculatively.
Haynes had a special job for him, Kinnison knew. As a Gray Lensman, he could not be given any military rank or post, and he could not conceive of the admiral of Grand Fleet wanting him around as an aid-de-camp.