"Sounds logical," O'Dea murmured. "Some humans enjoy doing the dirty work that nauseates the average person ... unpleasant, but necessary. As for that remark about rocket fuel's being your life blood, Morguma, I happen to know it's true!"
He chuckled at the look of discomfiture that spread over Morguma's features. The quintol that was a part of rocket fuel was the equivalent of alcohol to the metabolism of the Centaurs. Several times he had seen Morguma take a quick pull from a small bottle he kept in his leathery garment—the Centaur version of a hip flask.
Morguma changed the subject as O'Dea's throaty chuckle continued. He pointed to the grayish speck in the telescope.
"Oh a remarkable find! A lump of solid carbon dioxide, and of such a size! Oh how fortunate we are to have such fortunate fortune!"
Their vessel closed in on the chunk of almost pure carbon dioxide, a piece larger than the ship. Under the Centaur's directions, O'Dea fed out the seizure beams. He watched the rough mass become gradually rigid, fixed in space relative to them.
That seizure beam would interest Earth's scientists. But Earth was trillions of miles away.
Morguma clapped his paws together in foolish delight. "Oh how goody! We must hasten back to Avignon! On the way, we will analyze this precious find!"
As they blasted back toward Centauri's sixth planet, O'Dea learned from Morguma how the analysis was made by instrument. The figures they reported would be turned into a central office, along with the results of other ships engaged in the same task. In that way, the Centaurs checked the composition of the atmosphere they were creating for the planet, knew what elements were most necessary at any given moment.
They swooped low over the planet, on the side opposite the space base. Other Centaurs were bringing laden ships down, loosing their cargoes like sticks of bombs. A great plateau was speckled with white, and below, the ocean bed was filling with water.