"All men are slaves," she surprised him by saying. "You will amaze the other girl-warriors, when I bring you to the Nest."
Disbro, standing on the glass port-pane that was now floor for the control-room, labored and cursed at his keyboard. He pressed one, two, an octave. The nosed-over ship stirred, but did not rise.
"Max!" bawled Disbro to the upper hatch. "Pressure!"
"Giving you all there is," Max informed him timidly.
Disbro turned from his controls, shrugging in disgust.
"Those bow-tubes are jammed or displaced," he cursed. "We can't clear off till we get her up and clean them—and we can't get her up and clean them until they work. Huhh!"
Max's big, diffident face framed itself in the hatchway, registering a small hope.
"We're floating," he volunteered. "Close to those trees and things."
Disbro showed interest. "Then we'll get our feet on solid ground, or nearly solid. That tentacle-thing won't be sloshing around." He beckoned. "Come down."