"You mean you will. It doesn't matter that much to me where I sleep. What you've talked me into is having tomorrow off, thanks. I was supposed to get this bucket to Ell by tomorrow night for work the next day. As far as the ride was concerned, you did all the suffering, so don't apologize to me."

Bob had done a little flying during his college years, though nothing as large and heavy as the Dumbo had been involved. The procedures of let down, pattern entry, and final approach were meaningful enough to keep his attention off his stomach for the remaining minutes of the flight. They swept above the western arm of the island, almost above Bob's home, at five hundred feet, though only the pilot could see the house-they were in a left bank onto the downwind leg, and when they leveled on an eastward heading, the land was behind and to their left. Final approach carried the amphibian over the shorter leg of the L, only a few feet above its ridge and the tanks it carried. Bob thought he recognized a few faces on the long causeway which led out to the dock where the tankers loaded, but didn't have time to be sure. He had the impression that there were more houses in the village-the area at the bend of the L, where the road from the causeway met the one which ran the length of the island, but again he couldn't be sure; there were too many trees. It was likely enough that there were. Pacific Fuels, Incorporated, had been doing very well, especially during the recent Korean troubles, and the population of the island had been climbing, It had been about one hundred and seventy when the Hunter had first come ashore on Ell nearly eight years before, after his crash in the ocean outside the reef; now, both he and his host knew, it was about fifty greater. Many of the new ones were children, of course, but by no means all. The store, the school, and the library had all been enlarged, and more adults were needed to take care of the increased production facilities.

The landing area was marked off by buoys, and the numerous boats and canoes on the lagoon were safely clear. Dulac touched down within twenty yards of the runway's beginning, let the amphibian come to a near halt, and manipulated his throttles to bring the machine about. This brought the right cockpit seat, occupied by Bob and the Hunter, toward the shore, and both examined the island eagerly for changes; they had not been there for two years. Even from here, however, the trees kept them from seeing much. The long northwest leg of the island was still heavily jungled. Boats could be examined more easily: Most of the ones occupied by juveniles were now being paddled, towed, or sailed toward the long dock, though their owners were careful to keep out of the, airplane's way. The island population was of a mixed descent that was largely Polynesian, and the adults were casual about allowing children of all ages on and in the water, but took a very dim view of their offspring's violating the more common-sense safety rules of swimming and boat-handling. Few of the youngsters would have risked being kept ashore for a week or so, since they got no sympathy from their friends.

They even left tie-up room at the float, a twenty-yard-square structure two hundred yards from shore connected by a slanting gangway to the main dock. The raft itself was crowded with youngsters by the time the amphibian nosed into the notch provided for it, but they kept well back from the propellers as Dulac cut his mixtures and let the blades whirl to a stop. Bob and the Hunter knew most of the faces in the crowd, but were attracted to a lanky, six-foot-plus blond youth who approached with a line in his hands and began the job of mooring the aircraft It was Kenneth Malmstrom, one of the quintet who had shared unknowingly in the Hunter's police problem seven years before.

The sight of the young worker sent their minds in two different directions as Bob and his symbiont made their way back toward the hatch of the Catalina. Kinnaird himself was wondering whether any of the others would be on the island. He knew that two of them, Hay and Colby, were at colleges in Melbourne and Arizona respectively; but Rice was working for PFI and might be around, and Bob had been seriously considering his help in the new problem.

The Hunter was not thinking that far ahead. He was wondering whether Malmstrom, obviously available, could be trusted with the information he would need to be really helpful. The alien was inclined to doubt it. Of the five, Malmstrom had always seemed to him the least mature and reliable. It might or might not be relevant that he had not taken up the standing company offer of a college education for any of the island children, in return for a six-year contract after graduation. Many young people refused for reasons quite unconnected with intelligence. Still, Malmstrom seemed content with a low-responsibility job which demanded little of his imagination and brains, and the Hunter hoped that Bob would not get too enthusiastic on the strength of meeting the first of his old friends after a two-year absence.

The enthusiasm was certainly there. The moment the taller youth saw Bob at the hatch, he dropped the line he was holding and sprang toward him.

"Bob! You old bookworm! Are you back for good?" He shook hands violently, and he and Bob went through the back slapping routine which still bothered the Hunter after more than seven years. He knew the injury involved was negligible, but several human lifetimes of habit are hard to break.

"I guess so," answered Kinnaird. "I haven't signed anything, yet, but might as well get my degree worked off as soon as possible. You knew I was coming, didn't you?"

"Sure, but not just when. We really didn't expect Dulac and his Dumbo until tomorrow. When you were sighted, they phoned me to get down here and earn my dividend. Maybe I ought to get a job in the States, where work hours are a lot more definite. Out here they expect things to be done whenever they have to be done, no matter what time it is-even dinner time."

"How do you like what you're doing?" asked Bob.

"What more's to ask for? I sweat a few hours each day, get paid for it, and do what I want the rest of the time."

The Hunter was not surprised by his answer, and hoped that his host would take it as evidence of Malmstrom's unsuitability for their project. Of course, there was no risk of premature disclosure with the present crowd around them-unless Bob collapsed- but it was always possible that words might escape which would be hard to cover up later, unless Bob shared the Hunter's doubts about "Shorty".

In the hope of forestalling any such slip, the alien put a question of his own into Bob's ear.

"How about Rice? Is he here on Ell?" Kinnaird could have answered his symbiont without attracting attention, but there seemed no need this time. He simply repeated the question aloud.

"No, he's on Tahiti."

"Working for PFI, of course."

"Oh, sure. He gets over here every so often. I don't know just what he does, but it doesn't let him get outside much. I haven't seen anyone with lighter skin until you showed up. Doesn't the sun shine in the States any more?"

"Some places. New England uses other things in its tourist literature."

"Such as?"

"Oh, its brain factories." Malmstrom had finished mooring the aircraft, and was helping Dulac get its cargo onto the float Bob had been removing his own luggage at the same time, doing his best to keep his physical condition from being too obvious. He did not succeed very well; both he and the Hunter were disturbed at Malmstrom's next remark.

“They don't make muscles there, do they? You're pretty far out of shape, Bob old buddy."

Kinnaird gave a shrug, covering as well as he could.

"It's been quite a trip. I'll take you on in a few days, after I get tested up."

The conversation was interrupted, to the relief of the Hunter and his host, by a shrill voice from the main causeway above.