A dungareed mechanic sat tilted in a chair against a wall, feet on the desk, a greasy cap pushed back on his head.
Meek stamped his feet gratefully, pleased at feeling Earth gravity under him again. He lifted the hinged helmet of his suit back on his shoulders.
“You are the gentleman who can fix things?” he asked the mechanic.
THE mechanic stared. Here was no hell-for-leather freighter pilot, no be-whiskered roamer of the outer orbits. Meek’s hair was white and stuck out in uncombed tufts in a dozen directions. His skin was pale. His blue eyes looked watery behind the thick lenses that rode his nose. Even the bulky spacesuit failed to hide his stooped shoulders and slight frame.
The mechanic said nothing.
Meek tried again. “I saw the sign. It said you could fix anything. Sol…”
The mechanic shook himself.
“Sure,” he agreed, still slightly dazed. “Sure I can fix you up. What you got?”
He swung his feet off the desk.
“I ran into a swarm of pebbles,” Meek confessed. “Not much more than dust, really, but the screen couldn’t stop it all.”