"Sure. I get along. When I shuck this monkey suit and dress like a
human being. But you know what happens? When I turn up at some joint,
do I get introduced as _The_ Dusty Britton? Like hell I do. I'm treated
like any of the rest of the dopey tourists. Herded like cattle to the
rear seats, while a tomato like Gloria Bayle lushes in with her fourth
husband and gets the works on the house."
"You make my heart bleed, Dusty."
"Your heart never bled anything but vouchers," snapped Dusty. He
fumbled in his hip pocket and pulled out a flask.
Gramer did not say a word.
"Well, aren't you going to give me an argument?" demanded Dusty.
"No. You can't be seen."
"But someone's likely to smell bourbon on my breath."
"No one that counts. And by the time we get back--"
Dusty stopped raising the flask in midair. "Get back--?" he roared.
"Get back. Look, Gramer--"
"Sit down, Dusty. Take it easy."
"Gramer, what goes on here? You're not suggesting that we take off in
this fire-breathing hot water boiler, are you?"
"You've read all the advertisements."
"Yeah, but nobody with sense would take ad-writer's copy for anything
but guff."
Outside, a bomb burst with an ear-splitting racket. A stentorian voice
thundered, "X Minus Five Minutes!"
"Ye Gods, you're really going through with this madman's publicity
scheme?"
Gramer smiled. "Sure. It's just to Venus; but you can bet your life
that every kid that sees this take-off on video or here on the field
will be dreaming of the fabulous adventures you'll be having. Those
kids _know_ this is for real, Dusty."
"Include me elsewhere," mumbled Dusty. He started for the spacelock.
"You can't let those kids down!" roared Gramer.
Dusty paused at the sill of the spacelock. "Gramer," he said cynically,
"I'm not letting anybody down. I'm just keeping the hide of Dusty
Britton in one unscarred piece."
"But the public--"
"That's what you've got press agents for, Gramer. So you can get your
high-priced publicity men to run a few miles of paper explaining how I
happen to have left this shooting star four minutes before take-off!"
"Dusty, you're a no-good louse."
"But a whole one. And let me tell you this, Gramer, you're less worried
about the state of youthful morals than you are about losing the thread
of a good, high-selling series. So I'm going to sail out of here as
though I was scared to death of rockets--which I sure as hell am--and
you're going to tell some bright explainist to get busy earning the
dough you pay him. And when the smoke is all cleared away, I'll be safe
and you'll be safe, and Dusty Britton will continue to go rolling along
and the box office will continue to come rolling in. Spend a few short
months in space? Not while the geegees are running at Hialeah!"
"But Dusty--"
"Space? Bah! Nothing, floating gently from vacuum to void and back
again. Not for Dusty Britton!"
Dusty paused long enough to run splayed fingers through his hair and
then he headed for the spacelock with a determined step.
"Wait!" roared Gramer.
Dusty paused.
"The least you could do is to go out of here not looking like Dusty
Britton. Don't be an ass! I'll cover for you, but you've got to help!"
"All right but--" Outside another bomb racketed and the amplifier
announced laconically, "X Minus Three Minutes!" and startled Dusty with
the realization that he did not have much time. "--make it quick!"
"You--there!"
A technician coming up the ladder looked startled.
"Fifty bucks to swap clothing with Britton, here."
"Done," and the tech started to peel. He balked at Dusty's famous
'Blaster'? "That's worth another--"
"Another fifty--dammit!" agreed Gramer. "Now, wave out the door while
Dusty leaves."
The roar that went up was for their beloved hero waving out of the
spacelock, not the tech that came down the ramp with a rush, followed
by the portly Martin Gramer. The spacelock swung closed as the
spaceport jeep pulled away with Dusty and Gramer in the back.
They were a half mile away when the thunder came. No one even noticed
them wending their way through the crowd, for every eye on the field
was looking upwards, straining to see the spacecraft that was carrying
Dusty Britton and The Space Patrol off to new adventures.
* * * * *
About a hundred miles off the coast of Baja California, Scyth Radnor
sat in the control room of the big spacecraft. The dome was awash.
Scyth sat high in the dome watching the pleasantly lazy progress of a
forty foot schooner that was coming in his direction. It was a pretty
sight and Scyth appreciated it even though he had been born on Marandis
some thirty thousand years after the sail as a functional device had
been outmoded. Sail, to Scyth, was strictly a vacation sort of thing,
just as it was to Dusty Britton and a few billion other people whose
lives are geared to a time-table except for vacation time.
If there was any puzzlement over this, it was because Scyth's menslator
was not following the rocket, now laboring in free flight towards
Venus. Dusty, according to what Scyth had been able to pick up,
should have been there instead of here. But Scyth was not the burning
inquisitive type. He knew that there was some explanation and that he
could afford to wait until it was given instead of wasting a lot of
energy trying to figure out the motives of a member of a race unknown
to him.
He had better things to contemplate.
In the field of his telescope he could see a sight he approved of.
It was not Dusty Britton, lazing easily near the wheel of the schooner,
keeping the helm steady with his left foot because his hands were
occupied with a drink on one and a cigarette in the other. It was
Barbara Crandall, lying on the cabin on a blanket. Her ankles were
crossed and the arch of the upper foot was high and graceful. One
thigh, slightly higher than the other, glinted from the sunshine, dark
tan. Her breasts pointed at the sky, molded in dazzling white that
contrasted sharply against the healthy, animal tan of her flat tummy.
There were many more square feet of healthy hide showing than there
were of the white shark-skin affair she wore, and Scyth approved of the
view.
As he watched her, Dusty drained his drink, tossed his cigarette
overboard, and called:
"Hey, Barb! Get us another quart, will you?"
Scyth did not hear it, for his menslator was by no means that competent
a device. He just watched and wondered what they were saying.