"Hi," said John. This was entirely new. Sandra Drake was not usually given to greeting men as anything but absolute imbeciles. "What brings you out here? And how did you make it?"
"Oh," said Sandra lightly, "I remembered the charge on Station 1 and brought along a charge-compensator. We hardly sparked when we lit."
One of the attendants said, in a low aside: "About three hundred amperes! She'd call a major explosion a snap of the fingers! You could hide an egg in the crater she made."
But Sandra was still talking. "John," she said in a voice that would have caused Shylock to give her his last gold piece, "I want help."
"You need help? What can we do for you?"
"It's pretty big," warned Sandra. Her low contralto dared him to ask what it was—and also dared him to deny it to her.
"Look, Drake, you did us a favor not too long ago. I think we owe you one."
Sandra smiled uncertainly. "I was afraid that that little stunt was only repaying you for the first meeting we had."
"Shucks," said McBride. "Anyone can make a mistake. Forget it."
"But being pilot for you on the Haywire Queen did me a lot of good, too, you know. I got my license back for that one. We both gained."