"Too bad."
"Not so bad. Just made him jittery. He'll be all right in a week. But we won't have to run home without a pilot. I've got one coming out in a couple of hours. Drake. Ever heard of a pilot named Drake?"
"Seems to me that the name is familiar," said McBride slowly. "But not too clear, I'll know him when I see him."
"I won't. Conducted the hiring by mail, and then gave him a call when the need came—your need, I mean. They told me that Drake was out of the building, but that he'd be at Hellsport as soon as they could find him. Has a pretty good record, too, save for one thing—"
"Steve," said one of the men, "can you give us a lift? The Beetle's alphatron is somewhat heavier than we can handle around this corner."
"Sure. And the next time we're at Terra, have 'em fix the hoist rail, huh?"
Wires, bunched cables, and scraps were a tangled mess on the floor. Tools were strewn about in profusion. A box of nuts and bolts had overturned and cascaded the small parts across the floor below the workbench. But the work was progressing in fine shape in spite of the seeming confusion and messiness. To someone who knew these men, it was obvious that they knew their business and how to use their tools even though the place was ankle deep in junk. To someone who knew them not, the place looked like a junk shop.
