"We're not on Thalassa," she said. Her aura was a curious leaden color, shot through with sullen red flares and blotches.
"I have no right to force you," she went on stubbornly, "but I can't handle them alone. You simply have to come."
"But Ven—I'm a physical cipher. This gravity flattens me. I won't make it."
"You will," she said. "I'll help you. But this job needs a male mind."
It was deliberate flattery, I suppose. But there was an element of truth in it. Ven obviously couldn't do it, and obviously she thought I could. I couldn't help feeling pride in her need for me. I liked the feeling. For, after all, we hadn't been mated so long that there was too great an amount of familiarity in our relationship. The Eugenics Council had taken care of that very effectively when we announced our plans for our sabbatical.
"All right—I'll go," I repeated.
With a quick light movement she touched my antennae with her primary digits. The shock ran through me clear to my pads. "You're good," she said—and the way she said it was an accolade.