"How is she?" Roberds asked.
"Sleeping," Gray whispered. "But sinking...."
"We can take off at dawn, I think." He filled the pipe and didn't look at her. "You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock."
"I can take it." Suddenly she smiled, wanly. "I was with the Fleet. How long will it take?"
"Eight days, in that ship."
Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Peterson was harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small ship meant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days in that untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl and Gladney.
"Who was that ... man? The one you put out?" Gray asked.
"We call him Rat," Roberds said.
She didn't ask why. She said: "Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean? What is his record?"
Peterson opened his mouth.