“Um . . . m . . . ‘Tommie’ would be as good as anything, I guess.”
“QX. Tommie of Tominga. Ask her why she thinks she has to be a member of our crew.”
“Who else do you have who can repair one of your big atomic engines if it lets go?” came the answering question, in Vesta’s flawlessly idiomatic Galactic Spanish.
Cloud was amazed at Tommie’s changed appearance. She was powdered, perfumed, and painted: made up to the gills. Her heavy blonde hair was elaborately waved. If it wasn’t for her diesel-truck build, Cloud thought—and for the long black Venerian cigar she was smoking with such evident relish—she’d be a knockout on anybody’s tri-di screen!
“I can.” The profoundly deep, but pleasantly and musically resonant voice went on; the fluent translation continued. “What I don’t know about atomic engines hasn’t been found out yet. I don’t know much about Bergenholms and a couple of other things pertaining solely to flight, and I don’t know anything about communicators or detectors, which aren’t engineers’ business. I’ve laid in a complete supply of atomic service manuals for class S-C ships, and I tell you this—if anything with a motor or an engine in it aboard this vessel ever has run, I can take it apart and put it back together so it’ll run again. And by the way, you didn’t have half enough spare parts aboard, but you have now. Besides, you might need somebody to really swing that axe of yours, some day.”
Cloud studied the Tomingan narrowly. She wasn’t bragging, he decided finally. She was simply voicing what to her were simple truths.
“Your arguments have weight. Why do you want the job?”
“Several reasons. I’ve never done anything like this before, and it’ll be fun. Main reason, though, is that I think I’ll be able to talk you into doing a job on Tominga that has needed doing for a long time. I was a passenger, not an officer, on my way to talk to a party about ways of getting it done. You changed my mind. You and I, with some others who’ll be glad to help, will be able to do it better.”
Tommie volunteered no more information, and Cloud asked no more questions. Explanation would probably take more time than could be spared.
“Now you, Thlaskin,” the Blaster said in spaceal. “What have you got to say for yourself?”