"You are, so far as we know, the finest representative the world
could have." Moskov looked serious, and Joe became aware suddenly of
the awful burden involved. What use intellectual ability or athletic
prowess, compared to Jovian standards? Wasn't there someone--even a
science-fiction writer, perhaps--better qualified to handle a situation
as fantastic as this? Apparently not.
"When's the funeral?" Joe asked drily.
"Please, m'sieu, a little respect for the situation!" M. Tourneau
looked pained.
"The contest is to be in Slan's ship at eight o'clock tonight," Moskov
answered. "They will pick you up here in five hours."
"You and me both, Joe," Mike said.
"Yeah," Joe answered, and now he was mentally reeling under the impact
of his responsibility. "Let's have a drink first. I think we'll need
one."