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to a Wall and extended a seeing organ outside. The Walls let it through, then sealed around it. Eye’s organ pushed out, far enough from the Ship so he could view the entire sphere of stars. The picture traveled through Talker, who gave it to Thinker.
    Thinker lay in one corner of the room, a great shapeless blob of protoplasm. Within him were all the memories of his space-going ancestors. He considered the picture, compared it rapidly with others stored in his cells, and said, “No galactic planets within reach.”
    Talker automatically translated for everyone. It was what they had feared.
    Eye, with Thinker’s help, calculated that they were several hundred light-years off their course, on the galactic periphery.
    Every Crew member knew what that meant. Without a Pusher to boost the Ship to a multiple of the speed of light, they would never get home. The trip back, without a Pusher, would take longer than most of their lifetimes.
    â€œWhat would you suggest?” Talker asked Thinker.
    This was too vague a question for the literal-minded Thinker. He asked to have it rephrased.
    â€œWhat would be our best line of action,” Talker asked, “to get back to a galactic planet?”
    Thinker needed several minutes to go through all the possibilities stored in his cells. In the meantime, Doctor had patched the Walls and was asking to be given something to eat.
    â€œIn a little while we’ll all eat,” Talker said, twitching his tendrils nervously. Even though he was the second youngest Crew member—only Feeder was younger—the responsibility was largely on him. This was still an emergency; he had to coordinate information and direct action.
    One of the Walls suggested that they get good and drunk. This unrealistic solution was vetoed at once. It was typical of the Walls’ attitude, however. They were fine workers and good shipmates, but happy-go-lucky fellows at best. When they returned to their home planets, they would probably blow all their wages on a spree.
    â€œLoss of the Ship’s Pusher cripples the Ship for sustained faster-than-light speeds,” Thinker began without preamble. “The nearest galactic planet is four hundred and five light-years off.”
    Talker translated all this instantly along his wave-packet body.
    â€œTwo courses of action are open. First, the Ship can proceed to the nearest galactic planet under atomic power from Engine. This will take approximately two hundred years. Engine might still be alive at this time, although no one else will.
    â€œSecond, locate a primitive planet in this region, upon which are latent Pushers. Find one and train him. Have him push the Ship back to galactic territory.”
    Thinker was silent, having given all the possibilities he could find in the memories of his ancestors.
    They held a quick vote and decided upon Thinker’s second alternative. There was no choice, really. It was the only one which offered them any hope of getting back to their homes.
    â€œAll right,” Talker said. “Let’s eat. I think we all deserve it.”
    The body of the dead Pusher was shoved into the mouth of Engine, who consumed it at once, breaking down the atoms to energy. Engine was the only member of the Crew who lived on atomic energy.
    For the rest, Feeder dashed up and loaded himself from the nearest Accumulator. Then he transformed the food within him into the substances each member ate. His body chemistry changed, altered, adapted, making the different foods for the Crew.
    Eye lived entirely on a complex chlorophyll chain. Feeder reproduced this for him, then went over to give Talker his hydrocarbons, and the Walls their chlorine compound. For Doctor he made a facsimile of a silicate fruit that grew on Doctor’s native planet.
    Finally, feeding was over and the Ship back in order. The Accumulators were stacked in a corner, blissfully sleeping again. Eye was extending his vision as far as he could,