His vortex-bombing flitter was screened only against the frequencies of atomic disintegration; she could not ward off for a minute the beams of even the feeblest ship of war. His cruiser was clothed to stop anything short of a mauler's primary blasts, but there was no possible way of using her as a vehicle from which to bomb the vortex out of existence. He had to analyze the thing first, preferably from a fixed ground-station. Then, too, his special instruments were all in the flitter, and the cruiser had no bomb-tubes.
How could he use what he had to clear a station? The cruiser had no offensive beams, no ordinary bombs, no negabombs.
"Draw me a map, will you please, Luda?" he asked.
She did so. The cratered vortex, where an immense building had once been; the ring of fortresses, two of which were unusually far apart, separated by a parkway and a shallow lagoon.
"Shallow? How deep?" Cloud interrupted. She indicated a depth of a couple of feet.
"That's enough map then—thanks." The physicist ruminated. "You seem to be quite an engineer. Can you give me details on your power plants, screen generators, and so on?" She could. Complex mathematical equations flashed through his mind, each leaving a residue of fact.
"Can be done, maybe—depends." He turned to the Chickladorian.
"Are you a pilot, or just an emergency assignment?"
"Pilot—master pilot. Rating unlimited, tonnage or space."
"Good! Think you're in shape to take three thousand centimeters of acceleration?"