So Link carefully copied down in the log the three coordinates of Sord Three, and hunted up its proper solar motion, and put that in the log, and then put the figures for Trent in the computer and copied the answer in the log, too. It seemed the professional thing to do. Then he scraped away frost from the ports and got observations of the Glamorgan’s current heading, and went back to the board and adjusted that. He was just entering the last item in the log when Thistlethwaite came in. His hands were black from the work he’d done, and somehow he gave the impression of a man who had used up all his store of naughty words and still was unrelieved.

“Well?” asked Link pleasantly.

“We’re leakin’ air,” said the whiskered man bitterly. “It’s whistlin’ out! Playin’ tunes as it goes! I had to seal off the spaceboat blister. If we need that spaceboat we’ll be in a fix! When my business gets goin’, I’ll never use another junk ship like this! You raised hell in that take-off!”

“It’s very bad?” asked Link.

“I shut off all the compartments I couldn’t seal tight,” said Thistlethwaite bitterly. “And there’s still some leakage in the engine room, but I can’t find it. I ain’t found it so far, anyways.”

Link said, “How’s the air supply?”

“I pumped up on Trent,” said the little man. “If they’d known, they’d ha’ charged me for that, too!”

“Can we make out for two weeks?” asked Link.

“We can make out for ten!” snapped the whiskery one. “There’s only two of us an’ we can seal off everything but the control room an’ the engine room an’ a way between ’em. We can go ten weeks.”

“Then,” said Link relievedly, “we’re all right.” He made final adjustments. “The engines are all right?”