Rod stared, appalled. "There's no way you'll ever fit in there!"

"I can if it is necessary, Rod."

"Yeah, well, let's try and get by without it first, shall we?" Rod tossed his bag in and pushed the panel shut. "You just stand in the corner here and do your best to turn into a statue. Okay?"

"Certainly, Rod." Fess stepped into the corner and became just what Rod had ordered—a modernistic sculpture of a human being.

"You gonna be okay if the ship changes direction?"

"The floor is an iron alloy, Rod, and I have electromagnets in my feet. We found them quite useful, during Maxima's construction phase. And I notice ringbolts within reach, if the change in velocity is really strong."

"Well, okay, then…"

"Report for duty, please, Rod."

"Oh, all right. Now, let me see—where's my boss?"

Rod wandered away into the cubistic environment of the engine room. Fess boosted the gain on his microphones, to make sure he would be able to hear Rod if he was needed.

The light was dim but adequate, and all from ahead. Rod followed it, around shapes that he assumed had something to do with powering the engines. Then he began to hear the cursing. That made it easier—he simply followed the sound.

Whoever it was had a really remarkable vocabulary. Rod made mental notes of the more exotic terms, planning to ask for their definitions, after he got to know their author a little better. He rounded a large metal housing and saw somebody in a dirty, baggy coverall, hair tied back in a club, laboring over a machine with a wrench.

What was he supposed to do? Obviously, the guy thought he was alone. Rod swallowed, screwed his courage to the molly-bolt, and stepped forward, stiffening to attention and saluting. "Recruit Rod d'Armand reporting for duty, sir!"

His new boss whirled, almost dropping the wrench, saw him, then relaxed. "Hellfire, boy, don't do that! I thought I was alone down here." The engineer laid the wrench aside and stood, face coming into the brighter light of an overheard —and Rod caught his breath. The hair wasn't really clubbed, it was caught in a net, and the face under the grease smudges was oval and smooth, with delicate features. "You're the new swabbie, right?" The voice was a lovely alto, the eyes were large, green, and long-lashed, and Rod was in love.

"Uh-h-h-h—yes, ma'am. I'm your new engine-wiper. Where's the engine I'm supposed to wipe?"

"Over there." The engineer pointed to a bulging wall in the dimness at the end of the room. "Doesn't need any wiping, though. If it does, we're all in trouble. We just call you that 'cause it came down to us from ocean ships." She turned back, peering up at him. "Don't know anything about engines, huh?"

"Uh, no, ma'am. I want to learn, though!"

She groaned. "Defend me from the eager student! Why can't they send me someone who knows what he's doing?" She held up a hand to forestall the answer. "I know, I know—if she's learned that much, she's working on a better ship than this. Well, swabbie, I'm Gracie Muldoon."

"Rod d'Armand, ma'a—sir!"

"Better." Muldoon nodded. "And don't you forget it, swabbie."

"No, sir. Can I help?"

"Let's see." Muldoon pointed to the huge wheel she'd been working on, half-bared by an opened housing. It rippled with blades that looked uncomfortably like knives. "That's the backup turbine—and the threads on the last bolt are stripped, courtesy of the dirtside mechanic who overhauled it before I was hired; I'd never allow anyone to work on my engines without my watching."

Rod noticed the possessive attitude, though he doubted she owned the ship. He also noticed the correct grammar. Also the way her head tilted, and how fine her eyebrows were, though they didn't seem to be plucked… he hauled his mind back to the rotor. "How come it was the last bolt?"

" 'Cause when I found out it was stuck, I took off the other ones first."

"Oh." Rod felt his face heat up. "And when you try to turn the nut, the whole wheel spins?"

Muldoon nodded, watching him. "Not spins, really—it's pretty massive. But it doesn't stay put, either." She pointed to the wrench. "Give it a try."

Rod picked up the wrench and heaved at the nut. Sure enough, the wheel moved, but the nut didn't rotate. He nodded. "Any way to brace the wheel?"

"Yes, now that you're here." She knelt beside him, and his head filled with her aroma—female with a trace of perspiration. "Hand me the wrench, and take the Stillson… No, the big one."

Rod picked up the four-foot monkey wrench that lay beside her.

"Now, this is the brake lever." Muldoon hauled down on a stick to her right. "Watch the hub."

Rod saw a huge double cam rotate, pushing the edges of the hub out.

"But watch what happens when I lock it down." Muldoon made something click, and the stick stayed put—but the cam immediately snapped back ninety degrees, and the inner cylinder shrank.

"Another goodie, courtesy of that dirtside grease monkey who never should have come down out of the trees," Muldoon explained, "and that's why I was cursing."

Rod nodded, frowning at the huge nut in the center of the cam. "And I hold this still?"

"Yeah, after I put the brake on again." Muldoon released the stick, then pushed it down once more. Rod waited till the cam had stopped turning, then locked his wrench on and held fast. "What's the nut for?" he grunted.

"Taking the cam off—so push clockwise." Muldoon picked up her wrench, fitted it on the bolt, and heaved. The nut groaned, then began to move. Rod leaned all his mass on the wrench and pushed. Nonetheless, he felt himself beginning to move, and let go with one hand to grab the edge of the housing.

"Smart," Muldoon grated, and her wrench began to move more easily. Then it was going around and around quickly and smoothly, and the nut clattered off onto the floor.

"Success!" Muldoon crowed. "You can let up now, swabbie."

Rod let go of the housing and laid the wrench carefully aside. He was surprised to find he was panting.

"Good work." Muldoon stood up and came around to face the rotor. "Step back, now—these blades are sharp." Carefully, she lifted the rotor off its axle.

Rod scurried back out of the way, watching, amazed that a woman smaller than himself could handle a rotor bigger than herself.

She carried the wheel over to a workbench, mounted it on a hub, and locked it steady. "Just one blade to replace. Know how to cut threads, swabbie?"

"Uh—yes, sir."

"Good. Do." Muldoon tossed her head at a huge rack of tools on the wall. "Take your time and do it right."

"Yes, sir." Rod got busy.

He was done before she was, but not by much. She took off her mask, racked the welder, and said, "Now. Let's see if you can put it all back together."

Rod swallowed and came over to unlock the rotor and take it off the mount. "Yes, sir."

Muldoon leaned back against the workbench, arms folded, watching while he worked. Occasionally, she made an approving noise. When he had all the pieces back in place, he turned to her and said, "Ready for inspection, before I lock them in, sir."

"Good idea. Glad I didn't have to recommend it." Muldoon came over and examined the fastenings. She nodded slowly. "Nice job—and a nice surprise. I thought you said you didn't know anything about engines."

"I don't. But I did learn a little basic mechanics."

"Why, rich boy?"

Rod sighed. "Everybody sort of assumed I'd go into the family business, when I grew up—so my father insisted I learn how to do everything needed in the robot factory."

Muldoon frowned. "I thought you technocrats had robots do everything from sweeping up to machining and growing circuits."

Rod shrugged. "Robots do the actual labor, sure. But people have to make sure they do it right."