t
quip, he took a round trip, clear to Sirius B on a bike. Or, the tale of
the pirate, Black Bart, whose head was as hard as his heart. When he
found--"

"Enough!" Mike the Angel held up a hand. "That distillate of fine old
grape has made us both silly. Good night. I'm going to get some sleep."
He stood up and winked at Jeffers. "And thanks for listening while I
bent your ear."

"Any time at all, ol' amoeba. And if you ever feel you need some advice
from an ol' married man, why you just trot right round, and I'll give
you plenty of bad advice."

"At least you're honest," Mike said. "Night."

Mike the Angel left the bridge as Commander Jeffers was putting the
brandy back in its hiding place.

Mike went to his quarters, hit the sack, and spent less than five
minutes getting to sleep. There was nothing worrying him now.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep when he heard a noise in the
darkness of his room that made him sit up in bed, instantly awake. The
floater under him churned a little, but there was no noise. The room was
silent.

In the utter blackness of the room, Mike the Angel could see nothing,
and he could hear nothing but the all-pervading hum of the ship's
engines. But he could still feel and smell.

He searched back in his memory, trying to place the sound that had
awakened him. It hadn't been loud, merely unusual. It had been a noise
that shouldn't have been made in the stateroom. It had been a quiet
sound, really, but for the life of him, Mike couldn't remember what it
had sounded like.

But the evidence of his nerves told him there was someone else in the
room besides himself. Somewhere near him, something was radiating heat;
it was definitely perceptible in the air-conditioned coolness of his
room. And, too, there was the definite smell of warm oil--machine oil.
It was faint, but it was unmistakable.

And then he knew what the noise had been.

The soft purr of caterpillar treads against the floor!

Casually, Mike the Angel moved his hand to the wall plaque and touched
it lightly. The lights came on, dim and subdued.

"Hello, Snookums," said Mike the Angel gently. "What are you here for?"

The little robot just stood there for a second or two, unmoving, his
waldo hands clasped firmly in front of his chest. Mike suddenly wished
to Heaven that the metallic face could show something that Mike could
read.

"I came for data," said Snookums at last, in the contralto voice that so
resembl