Mr. Meek was having his troubles. First, the
_educated_ bugs worried him; then the
welfare worker tried to stop the Ring Rats' feud
by enlisting his aid. And now, he was a drafted
space-polo player--a fortune bet on his ability
at a game he had never played in his cloistered life.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The sign read:
_Atomic Motors Repaired. Busted
Plates Patched Up. Rocket Tubes
Relined. Wheeze In, Whiz Out!_
It added, as an afterthought, in shaky, inexpert lettering:
_We Fix Anything._
Mr. Oliver Meek stared owlishly at the sign, which hung from an arm
attached to a metal standard sunk in solid rock. A second sign was
wired to the standard just below the metal arm, but its legend was
faint, almost illegible. Meek blinked at it through thick-lensed
spectacles, finally deciphered its scrawl: