"Better kill him," advised Grouth impatiently. "It is your right."
"Let him live," said Wilding, frowning. "I may have some use for him."
The girl Amyth sneered unpleasantly. "The man has a mania for utility. Have you some use for me, halfling?"
"Halfling, yourself!" replied Wilding, with anger rising in him. "Perhaps, I have—when I have less important things to manage. But I'll let you know. Don't rush your luck."
A slow flush crept into her cheek, but she swallowed a corrosive retort. After all, Wilding was boss, and her arms were brittle.
Wilding turned to Grouth. "Who are the technicians? I'll want all kinds to get that lighter in shape for space."
Grouth laughed bitterly. "Time enough. Concor can help you select the technicians. He's one of them, and a spaceship wrecker has to know many technical trades. But you'll need more than men, you'll need miracles."
Concor broke in. "He's right, Wilding. We have skilled labor to work with, but no materials. Metal is scarce here, but we can junk some machine tools for part of what we'll need. The real lack is fuel. You can't process metal without heat, and you can't power a space-lighter with non-existent chemicals. They leave only enough chemical fuel each time to power the lighter for the next pickup. I will back your play, but I'm no good at working miracles. I've even forgotten how to pray, and I doubt if any known or unknown gods would heed a prayer from me."
"I don't pray for miracles. I arrange them. Can't the lighter be converted to use atomic power?"
Concor waved empty hands. "Not easily. It could be, probably, but what is the use? Where would we get activated fuels?"