Larry nodded⁠—and then seeing the dawning command in her eyes, went on hastily.

“Not with my own wings, Yolara. In a⁠—a corial that moves through⁠—what’s the word for air, Doc⁠—well, through this⁠—” He made a wide gesture up toward the nebulous haze above us. He took a pencil and on a white cloth made a hasty sketch of an airplane. “In a⁠—a corial like this⁠—” She regarded the sketch gravely, thrust a hand down into her girdle and brought forth a keen-bladed poniard; cut Larry’s markings out and placed the fragment carefully aside.

“That I can understand,” she said.

“Remarkably intelligent young woman,” muttered O’Keefe. “Hope I’m not giving anything away⁠—but she had me.”

“But what are your women like, Larree? Are they like me? And how many have loved you?” she whispered.