Baird opened the inner door. It was 08 hours 10 minutes ship time.
The Plumie stepped confidently out into the topsy-turvy corridors of the Niccola. He was about the size of a ten-year-old human boy, and features which were definitely not grotesque showed through the clear plastic of his helmet. His pressure suit was, engineering-wise, a very clean job. His whole appearance was prepossessing. When he spoke, very clear and quite high sounds—soprano sounds—came from a small speaker-unit at his shoulder.
“For us to talk,” said the skipper heavily, “is pure nonsense. But I take it you’ve something to say.”
The Plumie gazed about with an air of lively curiosity. Then he drew out a flat pad with a white surface and sketched swiftly. He offered it to the Niccola’s skipper.
“We want this on record,” he growled, staring about.
Diane’s voice said capably from a speaker somewhere nearby:
“Sir, there’s a scanner for inspection of objects brought aboard. Hold the plate flat and I’ll have a photograph—right!”
The skipper said curtly to the Plumie:
“You’ve drawn our two ships linked as they are. What have you to say about it?”
He handed back the plate. The Plumie pressed a stud and it was blank again. He sketched and offered it once more.