You hesitate for a moment, but he's likely to follow you anyway. And you can't quite help but enjoy him tagging along after you, as much as you try. You give in with hardly a grimace. "If you don't follow my instructions to the very letter, you'll probably die of getting all your skin broiled at once," you warn him. "I'm not joking, that's how Marrio bit it just last sweep." The rustblood slinks unhappily into the backseat of the transport device, an expression on their mangled face that conveys a devout wish to be forgotten about. Bel takes passenger side again and the two of you leave them to it-- you have to hand it to the young fellow, Bel's got a wonderful touch with traumatized lowbloods. It's almost enough to make you genuinely like the little anklebiter. You give him a rundown of the pipe systems on the way to Pump Sixteen: how the water used for cleaning and gardening and pissing is distilled via waste heat from mechanical industry, generating electricity for domestic consumption on the way, then run through a million miles of void-facing capilaries to distribute that heat safely out from troll-occupied living spaces, then precipitated nice and clean and cool back into storage tanks to be used all over again. "There's a non-negligible amount of loss at every stage," you conclude. "Water escapes, heat radiates unevenly, and of course electrical power isn't a traditionally trollish endeavor, our batteries are crap compared to most alien storage systems. But it keeps the lights on without resorting to expensive glow-feed or much in the way of toxic byproducts, and that's not nothing. And there's no end of dirty ice comets to snag, when we need top-ups. It's all a bit mad, but we're self-sufficient, and at the end of the quarterly budget that's really all that matters."