“I guess so, but that wasn’t it. It’s next on the list, an urgent—they’ve been screaming bloody murder for months. So, with or without a brain, I’ve got to blast off.”
“Start blasting as soon as you like, just as we are,” she decided instantly. “Much more important, at this stage, to work with you than to have Earth’s resources close by. Besides, I think everything we’re apt to need is already aboard—machine shop, electronics labs, materials, and experts.”
“QX.” He gave orders. Then:
“As for me, I’m going to hit the sack. I’m just about pooped.”
“I don’t wonder. That kind of stuff takes a lot of doing. ’Night, Storm.”
Chapter 11
▂▂▂▂▂▂JOAN THE TELEPATH
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, en route to the planet of the pink humanoids, Cloud was studying a scratch-chart of the First Galaxy. He had been working on the thing for weeks; had placed several hundred crossed circles, each representing a loose atomic vortex. He was scrawling weird-looking symbols and drawing freehand connecting lines when Joan came swishing into the “office.”
“Good morning, Effendi of Esoterica!” she greeted him gaily. “How’s the massive intellect? Firing on all forty barrels, I hope and trust?”
“Missing on all forty is more like it. Ideas are avoiding me in droves.” He looked her over amiably, in what he hoped she would think was a casual way.
He’d found himself doing quite a lot of that, lately . . . but she was such a swell egg! Why hadn’t she ever married? What a waste that was! Face a bit on the strong side for vapid calendar-girl prettiness, but. . . .