In an attempt to be consoling, he pointed this out to Bob. The pilot could not hear him, since the sound of the Hunter's voice originated in his host's middle-ear bones, vibrated by threads of unhuman tissues but the response was less well concealed.

"Don't tell me it wont be long!" snapped Kinnaird. "It's been three and a half eternities already, and the island isn't in sight yet. Why didn't you talk me out of it?" His voice was not quite audible, though he did speak-the Hunter was not a mind-reader, though he could interpret the emotion behind most of Bob's involuntary muscular and glandular responses. The pilot might possibly have heard the mutter if the engines had not been running.

"What was I supposed to say?" retorted the Hunter. "I did point out that Dulac was right about the roughness of the flight. Since you have final say about any of our activities-unless I want to exercise veto by knocking you out-there was nothing much more I could do. You chose to face it-now face it. After all, there's nothing in your stomach to lose even if your control does go."

"I wish you'd exercise that veto right now. At least I'd be comfortable until we get down. I mean it, Hunter. I've never felt worse in my life. Maybe the other trouble is contributing, but I really don't think I can put up with it any longer."

The Hunter was tempted for a moment, but decided against taking the chance.

"This isn't that sort emergency, and you know it," the alien said. "I'm sorry you're so uncomfortable, but no one ever dies of motion sickness; as your own people say. They-"

"If you say what I think you're about to, I'll get drunk the minute we get home!" Bob interrupted, almost loudly enough to attract Dulac's attention. The Hunter, whose main aim was to keep his host's attention from his own stomach, refrained from repeating the cliché, and simply changed the subject. The remark about alcohol he assumed-and hoped-was not meant seriously; Bob definitely knew better than to take chances with his symbiont's personal coordination.