"Well," drawled McBride, "I've never seen all of it."
"Why don't you give me the benefit of the doubt?"
"I wouldn't give you any benefit of any doubt," McBride told her. "You're probably concealing something."
"Why—" the radio broke down into a series of liquid, spluttering sounds as Sandra strove to keep that throaty contralto from sounding like a fishmonger's.
"Whistle," chuckled Timkins. "Then count ten. Then let's get back to the problem of the Sirians."
"Take it, Sandra," laughed Hammond. "We were only kidding you. Or—can't you take it?"
The spluttering died, and then that throaty laugh came back again. It was slightly forced and they knew it. The chances are that Sandra knew they knew it, but she didn't want to give them any more reason for laughter at her expense. Then she spoke, directly and honestly, both factors due to the fact that she was sure of herself and now could afford to laugh at them.
"Well, stop worrying about Sandra's hide," she told them. "This gang down here are fine people except that they can't talk Terran. They'll do anything for me that I can make them understand. That's the trouble—getting them to understand. But that's coming. I'm teaching them to speak Terran. That should fix things up fine."
"Why not learn to speak Sirian?" asked McBride.
"Why? Let them do the work. Learning a new language is not Drake's idea of a year's fun."