"You mean all it does is shout '_Ray_?'" asked Brad.
"Well, it can also shout '_Max_'," said the old man. "Fearful, ain't
it?"
"Yes," said Brad. He took a piece of old parchment from a breast
pocket. "This," he stated, "is the original deed to Manhattan. Notice
here on the bottom where it says $24. I am signing it over to you." He
signed with a flourish. "Now you have a legal claim, a crusade, and a
nice piece of property. Go get it!"
"But the headaches!" cried the old man.
"Cool, man, cool!" said Brad. "I'll mix a Bromo."
"Is it habit-forming?" cried the High Kruv.
"Not a bit," said Brad, mixing it. "Simply take one an hour, forever.
And now I must bid you farewell."
"Wait!" cried the Kruv. "Don't you want to take my lovely daughter
back with you?"
Brad looked at her. She was lovely. She had scales, but she was
lovely. She had magnificent blonde hair, some of it almost an inch
long, none of it on her head, but she was lovely.
"... Well," said Brad, hesitatingly. He had his eyes glued on her;
when he took them off, they made a noise like vacuum cups:
"_Pfffopp!_"
"Your mother won't like her," whispered Ugh.
"... Well," said Brad. He could feel Duty tugging inside. Not for him
the pipe and slippers. He was one of spaceway's men; he would go the
spacemen's way, off into waymen's space. Waymen, not women, he told
himself sternly. The call of the Ether ... the vacuous void ... the
black velvet wastes ... the outspread cloak of the universe, dripping
with stardust ... the undreamt-of galaxies ... these were the things
by which he lived. "... Well," said Brad.
"C'mon," said Ugh. "We'll only fight over her."
Slowly, they bounded back to their spaceship.
The ship sped backward, headed for Earth. It was days before the
mistake was discovered, and this alone spared their lives. For had
they completed their journey on schedule--but why be morbid?
The fact is, the Earth blew up. What a sight. The whole thing,
whirling one minute like the globe in Miss Fogarty's geography supply
closet--the next minute, whamo!
"Gee," said Ugh, soberly. "Guess we're lucky, huh?"
"... Well," said Brad. He hadn't said anything else for days, but he
didn't seem well at all. Funny, he thought. They promise you if you go
on working, work hard and don't fool around, don't ask questions, just
do your job, everything'll come your way. The next thing they're all
dead, and there's nobody to complain to, even. Was it selfish to think
of one's career at a time like this? No, he told himself. It was all
he knew. The Patrol was all that mattered!
He did some rapid calculation. They were far off the interplanetary
travel lanes; their fuel supply was down to a single can of kerosene;
food for perhaps 2 days remained. As he listened to Ugh tuning his
violin, scarcely audible over the squeakings and squealings that
filled the spaceship, he realized that the only solution--the only
thing that could save them, or the future of Earthmen--was for a
shipload of beautiful dames to rescue them within the next 36 hours.
He figured the odds against this to be fifty billion to one--but Brad
had fought big odds before.
Grim-lipped, he shaved.
* * * * *