"Is this the place where the finest brains in space work out the intricate problems?" asked a cool contralto with a cynical tone.
McBride, who had just finished welding a small angle bracket on the bottom of the mech-grav generator, looked up, blinked, did a double take, and then stood up. The torch burned the air in his limp fingers, wasting the canned gas.
"You! Drake! Sandra Drake!"
"Is there another?" asked the saucy voice.
"I thought that Sandy was a nickname," snapped Hammond.
"It's Sandra," said she, "and it looks to me that your friend McBride is always up to his ears in junk!"
John extinguished the torch and advanced upon the picturesque red-head. "Have you still got your license?" he asked. "After that stunt you pulled—"
"Your political pals took away my private license, but I'm still registered as a pilot. This, I've been told, is an emergency, and, therefore, I am compelled to run your junk-heap for you. I'm willing for no other reason than the fact that my assistance to you in your so-called time of need will be instrumental in getting my private license back. Are you ready to go—and where?"
"We're about ready to try," said Steve.